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diff --git a/4325-h/4325-h.htm b/4325-h/4325-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b5ac1b7 --- /dev/null +++ b/4325-h/4325-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,6475 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="us-ascii"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + The New Book of Martyrs, by Georges Duhamel + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The New Book Of Martyrs, by Georges Duhamel + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The New Book Of Martyrs + +Author: Georges Duhamel + +Translator: Florence Simmonds + +Release Date: January 12, 2010 [EBook #4325] +Last Updated: January 26, 2013 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE NEW BOOK OF MARTYRS *** + + + + +Produced by Robert Rowe, Charles Franks, David Widger +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + THE NEW BOOK OF MARTYRS + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Georges Duhamel + </h2> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h3> + Translated by Florence Simmonds + </h3> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + Contents + </h2> + <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto"> + <tr> + <td> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> THE NEW BOOK OF MARTYRS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> THROUGHOUT OUR LAND </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> THE STORY OF CARRE AND LERONDEAU </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> MEMORIES OF THE MARTYRS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> THE DEATH OF MERCIER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> VERDUN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> THE SACRIFICE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> THE THIRD SYMPHONY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> GRACE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> NIGHTS IN ARTOIS </a> + </p> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h1> + THE NEW BOOK OF MARTYRS + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THROUGHOUT OUR LAND + </h2> + <p> + From the disfigured regions where the cannon reigns supreme, to the + mountains of the South, to the ocean, to the glittering shores of the + inland sea, the cry of wounded men echoes throughout the land, and a vast + kindred cry seems to rise responsive from the whole world. + </p> + <p> + There is no French town in which the wounds inflicted on the battle-field + are not bleeding. Not one which has not accepted the duty of assuaging + something of the sum of suffering, just as it bears its part in the sum of + mourning; not one which may not hear within its own walls an echo of the + greater lamentation swelling and muttering where the conflict seems to + rage unceasingly. The waves of war break upon the whole surface of the + country, and like the incoming tide, strew it with wreckage. + </p> + <p> + In the beds which the piety of the public has prepared on every side, + stricken men await the verdict of fate. The beds are white, the bandages + are spotless; many faces smile until the hour when they are flushed with + fever, and until that same fever makes a whole nation of wounded tremble + on the Continent. + </p> + <p> + Some one who had been visiting the wounded said to me: "The beds are + really very white, the dressings are clean, all the patients seem to be + playing cards, reading the papers, eating dainties; they are simple, often + very gentle, they don't look very unhappy. They all tell the same story... + The war has not changed them much. One can recognise them all." + </p> + <p> + Are you sure that you recognise them? You have just been looking at them, + are you sure that you have seen them? + </p> + <p> + Under their bandages are wounds you cannot imagine. Below the wounds, in + the depths of the mutilated flesh, a soul, strange and furtive, is + stirring in feverish exaltation, a soul which does not readily reveal + itself, which expresses itself artlessly, but which I would fain make you + understand. + </p> + <p> + In these days, when nothing retains its former semblance, all these men + are no longer those you so lately knew. Suffering has roused them from the + sleep of gentle life, and every day fills them with a terrible + intoxication. They are now something more than themselves; those we loved + were merely happy shadows. + </p> + <p> + Let us lose none of their humble words, let us note their slightest + gestures, and tell me, tell me that we will think of them together, now + and later, when we realise the misery of the times and the magnitude of + their sacrifice. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE STORY OF CARRE AND LERONDEAU + </h2> + <p> + They came in like two parcels dispatched by the same post, two clumsy, + squalid parcels, badly packed, and damaged in transit. Two human forms + rolled up in linens and woollens, strapped into strange instruments, one + of which enclosed the whole man, like a coffin of zinc and wire. + </p> + <p> + They seemed to be of no particular age; or rather, each might have been a + thousand and more, the age of swaddled mummies in the depths of + sarcophagi. + </p> + <p> + We washed, combed, and peeled them, and laid them very cautiously between + clean sheets; then we found that one had the look of an old man, and that + the other was still a boy. + </p> + <p> + Their beds face each other in the same grey room. All who enter it notice + them at once; their infinite misery gives them an air of kinship. Compared + with them, the other wounded seem well and happy. And in this abode of + suffering, they are kings; their couches are encircled by the respect and + silence due to majesty. + </p> + <p> + I approach the younger man and bend over him. + </p> + <p> + "What is your name?" + </p> + <p> + The answer is a murmur accompanied by an imploring look. What I hear + sounds like: Mahihehondo. It is a sigh with modulations. + </p> + <p> + It takes me a week to discover that the boyish patient is called Marie + Lerondeau. + </p> + <p> + The bed opposite is less confused. I see a little toothless head. From out + the ragged beard comes a peasant voice, broken in tone, but touching and + almost melodious. The man who lies there is called Carre. + </p> + <p> + They did not come from the same battlefield, but they were hit almost at + the same time, and they have the same wound. Each has a fractured thigh. + Chance brought them together in the same distant ambulance, where their + wounds festered side by side. Since then they have kept together, till now + they lie enfolded by the blue radiance of the Master's gaze. + </p> + <p> + He looks at both, and shakes his head silently; truly, a bad business! He + can but ask himself which of the two will die first, so great are the odds + against the survival of either. + </p> + <p> + The white-bearded man considers them in silence, turning in his hand the + cunning knife. + </p> + <p> + We can know nothing till after this grave debate. The soul must withdraw, + for this is not its hour. Now the knife must divide the flesh, and lay the + ravage bare, and do its work completely. + </p> + <p> + So the two comrades go to sleep, in that dreadful slumber wherein each man + resembles his own corpse. Henceforth we enter upon the struggle. We have + laid our grasp upon these two bodies; we shall not let them be snatched + from us easily. + </p> + <p> + The nausea of the awakening, the sharp agony of the first hours are over, + and I begin to discover my new friends. + </p> + <p> + This requires time and patience. The dressing hour is propitious. The man + lies naked on the table. One sees him as a whole, as also those great + gaping wounds, the objects of so many hopes and fears. + </p> + <p> + The afternoon is no less favourable to communion, but that is another + matter. Calm has come to them, and these two creatures have ceased to be + nothing but a tortured leg and a screaming mouth. + </p> + <p> + Carre went ahead at once. He made a veritable bound. Whereas Lerondeau + seemed still wrapped in a kind of plaintive stupor, Carre was already + enfolding me in a deep affectionate gaze. He said: + </p> + <p> + "You must do all that is necessary." + </p> + <p> + Lerondeau can as yet only murmur a half articulate phrase: + </p> + <p> + "Mustn't hurt me." + </p> + <p> + As soon as I could distinguish and understand the boy's words, I called + him by his Christian name. I would say: + </p> + <p> + "How are you, Marie?" or "I am pleased with you, Marie." + </p> + <p> + This familiarity suits him, as does my use of "thee" and "thou" in talking + to him. He very soon guessed that I speak thus only to those who suffer + most, and for whom I have a special tenderness. So I say to him: "Marie, + the wound looks very well today." And every one in the hospital calls him + Marie as I do. + </p> + <p> + When he is not behaving well, I say: + </p> + <p> + "Come, be sensible, Lerondeau." + </p> + <p> + His eyes fill with tears at once. One day I was obliged to try "Monsieur + Lerondeau," and he was so hurt that I had to retract on the spot. However, + he now refrains from grumbling at his orderly, and screaming too loudly + during the dressing of his wound, for he knows that the day I say to him + "Be quiet, Monsiuer"—just Monsiuer—our relations will be + exceedingly strained. + </p> + <p> + From the first, Carre bore himself like a man. When I entered the dressing + ward, I found the two lying side by side on stretchers which had been + placed on the floor. Carre's emaciated arm emerged from under his blanket, + and he began to lecture Marie on the subject of hope and courage.... I + listened to the quavering voice, I looked at the toothless face, lit up by + a smile, and I felt a curious choking in my throat, while Lerondeau + blinked like a child who is being scolded. Then I went out of the room, + because this was a matter between those two lying on the ground, and had + nothing to do with me, a robust person, standing on my feet. + </p> + <p> + Since then, Carre has proved that he had a right to preach courage to + young Lerondeau. + </p> + <p> + While the dressing is being prepared, he lies on the ground with the + others, waiting his turn, and says very little. He looks gravely round + him, and smiles when his eyes meet mine. He is not proud, but he is not + one of those who are ready to chatter to every one. One does not come into + this ward to talk, but to suffer, and Carre is bracing himself to suffer + as decently as possible. + </p> + <p> + When he is not quite sure of himself, he warns me, saying: + </p> + <p> + "I am not as strong as usual to-day." + </p> + <p> + Nine times, out of ten, he is "as strong as usual," but he is so thin, so + wasted, so reduced by his mighty task, that he is sometimes obliged to + beat a retreat. He does it with honour, with dignity. He has just said: + "My knee is terribly painful," and the sentence almost ends in a scream. + Then, feeling that he is about to howl like the others, Carre begins to + sing. + </p> + <p> + The first time this happened I did not quite understand what was going on. + He repeated the one phrase again and again: "Oh, the pain in my knee!" And + gradually I became aware that this lament was becoming a real melody, and + for five long minutes Carre improvised a terrible, wonderful, + heart-rending song on "the pain in his knee." Since then this has become a + habit, and he begins to sing suddenly as soon as he feels that he can no + longer keep silence. + </p> + <p> + Among his improvisations he will introduce old airs. I prefer not to look + at his face when he begins: "Il n'est ni beau ni grand mon verre." Indeed, + I have a good excuse for not looking at it, for I am very busy with his + poor leg, which gives me much anxiety, and has to be handled with infinite + precautions. + </p> + <p> + I do "all that is necessary," introducing the burning tincture of iodine + several times. Carre feels the sting; and when, passing by his corner an + hour later, I listen for a moment, I hear him slowly chanting in a + trembling but melodious voice the theme: "He gave me tincture of iodine." + </p> + <p> + Carre is proud of showing courage. + </p> + <p> + This morning he seemed so weak that I tried to be as quick as possible and + to keep my ears shut. But presently a stranger came into the ward. Carre + turned his head slightly, saw the visitor, and frowning, began to sing: + </p> + <p> + "Il n'est ni beau ni grand mon verre." + </p> + <p> + The stranger looked at him with tears in his eyes but the more he looked, + the more resolutely Carre smiled, clutching the edges of the table with + his two quivering hands. + </p> + <p> + Lerondeau has good strong teeth. Carre has nothing but black stumps. This + distresses me, for a man with a fractured thigh needs good teeth. + </p> + <p> + Lerondeau is still at death's door, but though moribund, he can eat. He + attacks his meat with a well-armed jaw; he bites with animal energy, and + seems to fasten upon anything substantial. + </p> + <p> + Carre, for his part, is well-inclined to eat; but what can he do with his + old stumps? + </p> + <p> + "Besides," he says, "I was never very carnivorous." + </p> + <p> + Accordingly, he prefers to smoke. In view of lying perpetually upon his + back, he arranged the cover of a cardboard box upon his chest; the + cigarette ash falls into this, and Carre smokes without moving, in cleanly + fashion. + </p> + <p> + I look at the ash, the smoke, the yellow, emaciated face, and reflect + sadly that it is not enough to have the will to live; one must have teeth. + </p> + <p> + Not every one knows how to suffer, and even when we know, we must set + about it the right way, if we are to come off with honour. As soon as he + is on the table, Carre looks round him and asks: + </p> + <p> + "Isn't there any one to squeeze my head to-day?" + </p> + <p> + If there is no answer, he repeats anxiously: + </p> + <p> + "Who is going to squeeze my head to-day?" + </p> + <p> + Then a nurse approaches, takes his head between her hands and presses.... + I can begin; as soon as some one is "squeezing his head" Carre is good. + </p> + <p> + Lerondeau's method is different. He wants some one to hold his hands. When + there is no one to do this, he shrieks: "I shall fall." + </p> + <p> + It is no use to tell him that he is on a solid table, and that he need not + be afraid. He gropes about for the helpful hands, and cries, the sweat + breaking out on his brow: "I know I shall fall." Then I get some one to + come and hold his hands, for suffering, at any rate, is a reality.... + </p> + <p> + Each sufferer has his characteristic cry when the dressing is going on. + The poor have only one, a simple cry that does service for them all. It + makes one think of the women who, when they are bringing a child into the + world, repeat, at every pain, the one complaint they have adopted. + </p> + <p> + Carre has a great many varied cries, and he does not say the same thing + when the dressing is removed, and when the forceps are applied. + </p> + <p> + At the supreme moment he exclaims: "Oh, the pain in my knee!" + </p> + <p> + Then, when the anguish abates, he shakes his head and repeats: + </p> + <p> + "Oh, that wretched knee!" + </p> + <p> + When it is the turn of the thigh, he is exasperated. + </p> + <p> + "Now it's this thigh again!" + </p> + <p> + And he repeats this incessantly, from second to second. Then we go on to + the wound under his heel, and Carre begins: + </p> + <p> + "Well, what is wrong with the poor heel?" + </p> + <p> + Finally, when he is tired of singing, he murmurs softly and regularly: + </p> + <p> + "They don't know how that wretched knee hurts me... they don't know how it + hurts me." + </p> + <p> + Lerondeau, who is, and always will be, a little boy compared with Carre, + is very poor in the matter of cries. But when he hears his complaints, he + checks his own cries, Borrows them. Accordingly, I hear him beginning: + </p> + <p> + "Oh, my poor knee!... They don't know it hurts!" + </p> + <p> + One morning when he was shouting this at the top of his voice, I asked him + gravely: + </p> + <p> + "Why do you make the same complaints as Carre?" + </p> + <p> + Marie is only a peasant, but he showed me a face that was really offended: + </p> + <p> + "It's not true. I don't say the same things." + </p> + <p> + I said no more, for there are no souls so rugged that they cannot feel + certain stings. + </p> + <p> + Marie has told me the story of his life and of his campaign. As he is not + very eloquent, It was for the most part a confused murmur with an + ever-recurring protestation: + </p> + <p> + "I was a good one to work, you know, strong as a horse." + </p> + <p> + Yet I can hardly imagine that there was once a Marie Lerondeau who was a + robust young fellow, standing firm and erect between the handles of a + plough. I know him only as a man lying on his back, and I even find it + difficult to picture to myself what his shape and aspect will be when we + get him on his feet again. + </p> + <p> + Marie did his duty bravely under fire. "He stayed alone with the wagons + and when he was wounded, the Germans kicked him with their heavy boots." + These are the salient points of the interrogatory. + </p> + <p> + Now and again Lerondeau's babble ceases, and he looks up to the ceiling, + for this takes the place of distance and horizon to those who lie upon + their backs. After a long, light silence, he looks at me again, and + repeats: + </p> + <p> + "I must have been pretty brave to stay alone with the wagons!" + </p> + <p> + True enough, Lerondeau was brave, and I take care to let people know it. + When strangers come in during the dressings, I show them Marie, who is + making ready to groan, and say: + </p> + <p> + "This is Marie—Marie Lerondeau, you know. He has a fractured thigh, + but he is a very brave fellow. He stayed alone with the wagons." + </p> + <p> + The visitors nod their heads admiringly, and Marie controls himself. He + blushes a little, and the muscles of his neck swell with pride. He makes a + sign with his eyes as if to say: "Yes, indeed, alone, all alone with the + wagons." And meanwhile, the dressing has been nearly finished. + </p> + <p> + The whole world must know that Marie stayed alone with the wagons. I + intend to pin a report of this on the Government pension certificate. + </p> + <p> + Carre was only under fire once, and was hit almost immediately. He is much + annoyed at this, for he had a good stock of courage, and now he has to + waste it within the walls of a hospital. + </p> + <p> + He advanced through a huge beetroot field, and he ran with the others + towards a fine white mist. All of a sudden, crack, he fell! His thigh was + fractured. He fell among the thick leaves, on the waterlogged earth. + </p> + <p> + Shortly afterwards his sergeant passed again, and said to him: + </p> + <p> + "We are going back to our trench, they shall come and fetch you later." + </p> + <p> + Carre merely said: + </p> + <p> + "Put my haversack under my head." + </p> + <p> + Evening was coming on; he prepared, gravely, to spend the night among the + beetroots. And there he spent it, alone with a cold drizzling rain, + meditating seriously until morning. + </p> + <p> + It was fortunate that Carre brought such a stock of courage into hospital, + for he needs it all. Successive operations and dressings make large drafts + upon the most generous supplies. + </p> + <p> + They put Carre upon the table, and I note an almost joyful resolution in + his look. To-day he has "all his strength, to the last ounce." + </p> + <p> + But just to-day, I have but little to do, not much suffering to inflict. + He has scarcely knitted his brows, when I begin to fasten up the apparatus + again. + </p> + <p> + Then Carre's haggard face breaks into a smile, and he exclaims: + </p> + <p> + "Finished already? Put some more ether on, make it sting a bit at least." + </p> + <p> + Carre knows that the courage of which there was no need to-day will not, + perhaps, be available to-morrow. + </p> + <p> + And to-morrow, and for many days after, Carre will have to be constantly + calling up those reserves of the soul which help the body to suffer while + it waits for the good offices of Nature. + </p> + <p> + The swimmer adrift on the open seas measures his strength, and strives + with all his muscles to keep himself afloat. But what is he to do when + there is no land on the horizon, and none beyond it? + </p> + <p> + This leg, infected to the very marrow, seems to be slowly devouring the + man to whom it belongs; we look at it anxiously, and the white-haired + Master fixes two small light-blue eyes upon it, eyes accustomed to + appraise the things of life, yet, for the moment, hesitant. + </p> + <p> + I speak to Carre in veiled words of the troublesome, gangrenous leg. He + gives a toothless laugh, and settles the question at once. + </p> + <p> + "Well, if the wretched thing is a nuisance, we shall have to get rid of + it." + </p> + <p> + After this consent, we shall no doubt make up our minds to do so. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile Lerondeau is creeping steadily towards healing. + </p> + <p> + Lying on his back, bound up in bandages and a zinc trough, and imprisoned + by cushions, he nevertheless looks like a ship which the tide will set + afloat at dawn. + </p> + <p> + He is putting on flesh, yet, strange to say, he seems to get lighter and + lighter. He is learning not to groan, not because his frail soul is + gaining strength, but because the animal is better fed and more robust. + </p> + <p> + His ideas of strength of mind are indeed very elementary. As soon as I + hear his first cry, in the warm room where his wound is dressed, I give + him an encouraging look, and say: + </p> + <p> + "Be brave, Marie! Try to be strong!" + </p> + <p> + Then he knits his brows, makes a grimace, and asks: + </p> + <p> + "Ought I to say 'By God!'?" + </p> + <p> + The zinc trough in which Marie's shattered leg has been lying has lost its + shape; it has become oxydised and is split at the edges; so I have decided + to change it. + </p> + <p> + I take it away, look at it, and throw it into a corner. Marie follows my + movements with a scared glance. While I am adjusting the new trough, a + solid, comfortable one, but rather different in appearance, he casts an + eloquent glance at the discarded one, and his eyes fill with copious + tears. + </p> + <p> + This change is a small matter; but in the lives of the sick, there are no + small things. + </p> + <p> + Lerondeau will weep for the old zinc fragment for two days, and it will be + a long time before he ceases to look distrustfully at the new trough, and + to criticise it in those minute and bitter terms which only a connoisseur + can understand or invent. + </p> + <p> + Carre, on the other hand, cannot succeed in carrying along his body by the + generous impulse of his soul. Everything about him save his eyes and his + liquid voice foreshadow the corpse. Throughout the winter days and the + long sleepless nights, he looks as if he were dragging along a derelict. + </p> + <p> + He strains at it... with his poignant songs and his brave words which + falter now, and often die away in a moan. + </p> + <p> + I had to do his dressing in the presence of Marie. The amount of work to + be got through, and the cramped quarters made this necessary. Marie was + grave and attentive as if he were taking a lesson, and, indeed, it was a + lesson in patience and courage. But all at once, the teacher broke down. + In the middle of the dressing, Carre opened his lips, and in spite of + himself, began to complain without restraint or measure, giving up the + struggle in despair. + </p> + <p> + Lerondeau listened, anxious and uneasy; and Carre, knowing that Marie was + listening, continued to lament, like one who has lost all sense of shame. + </p> + <p> + Lerondeau called me by a motion of his eyelids. He said: + </p> + <p> + "Carre!..." + </p> + <p> + And he added: + </p> + <p> + "I saw his slough. Lord! he is bad." + </p> + <p> + Lerondeau has a good memory for medical terms. Yes, he saw Carre's slough. + He himself has the like on his posterior and on his heel; but the tear + that trembles in the corner of his eye is certainly for Carre. + </p> + <p> + And then, he knows, he feels that HIS wounds are going to heal. + </p> + <p> + But it is bad for Marie to hear another complaining before his own turn. + </p> + <p> + He comes to the table very ill-disposed. His nerves have been shaken and + are unusually irritable. + </p> + <p> + At the first movement, he begins with sighs and those "Poor devils!" which + are his artless and habitual expressions of self-pity. And then, all at + once, he begins to scream, as I had not heard him scream for a long time. + He screams in a sort of frenzy, opening his mouth widely, and shrieking + with all the strength of his lungs, and with all the strength of his face, + it would seem, for it is flushed and bathed in sweat. He screams + unreasonably at the lightest touch, in an incoherent and disorderly + fashion. + </p> + <p> + Then, ceasing to exhort him to be calm with gentle and compassionate + words, I raise my voice suddenly and order the boy to be quiet, in a + severe tone that admits of no parleying... + </p> + <p> + Marie's agitation subsides at once, like a bubble at the touch of a + finger. The ward still rings with my imperious order. A good lady who does + not understand at once, stares at me in stupefaction. + </p> + <p> + But Marie, red and frightened, controls his unreasonable emotion. And as + long as the dressing lasts, I dominate his soul strenuously to prevent him + from suffering in vain, just as others hold and grasp his wrists. + </p> + <p> + Then, presently, it is all over. I give him a fraternal smile that relaxes + the tension of his brow as a bow is unbent. + </p> + <p> + A lady, who is a duchess at the least, came to visit the wounded. She + exhaled such a strong, sweet perfume that she cannot have distinguished + the odour of suffering that pervades this place. + </p> + <p> + Carre was shown to her as one of the most interesting specimens of the + house. She looked at him with a curious, faded smile, which, thanks to + paint and powder, still had a certain beauty. + </p> + <p> + She made some patriotic remarks to Carre full of allusions to his conduct + under fire. And Carre ceased staring out of the window to look at the lady + with eyes full of respectful astonishment. + </p> + <p> + And then she asked Carre what she could send him that he would like, with + a gesture that seemed to offer the kingdoms of the earth and the glory of + them. + </p> + <p> + Carre, in return, gave her a radiant smile; he considered for a moment and + then said modestly: + </p> + <p> + "A little bit of veal with new potatoes." + </p> + <p> + The handsome lady thought it tactful to laugh. And I felt instinctively + that her interest in Carre was suddenly quenched. + </p> + <p> + An old man sometimes comes to visit Carre. He stops before the bed, and + with a stony face pronounces words full of an overflowing benevolence. + </p> + <p> + "Give him anything he asks for.... Send a telegram to his family." + </p> + <p> + Carre protests timidly: "Why a telegram? I have no one but my poor old + mother; it would frighten her." + </p> + <p> + The little old gentleman emerges from his varnished boots like a + variegated plant from a double vase. + </p> + <p> + Carre coughs—first, to keep himself in countenance, and, secondly, + because his cruel bronchitis takes this opportunity to give him a shaking. + </p> + <p> + Then the old gentleman stoops, and all his medals hang out from his tunic + like little dried-up breasts. He bends down, puffing and pouting, without + removing his gold-trimmed KEPI, and lays a deaf ear on Carre's chest with + an air of authority. + </p> + <p> + Carre's leg has been sacrificed. The whole limb has gone, leaving a huge + and dreadful wound level with the trunk. + </p> + <p> + It is very surprising that the rest of Carre did not go with the leg. + </p> + <p> + He had a pretty hard day. + </p> + <p> + O life! O soul! How you cling to this battered carcase! O little gleam on + the surface of the eye! Twenty times I saw it die down and kindle again. + And it seemed too suffering, too weak, too despairing ever to reflect + anything again save suffering, weakness, and despair. + </p> + <p> + During the long afternoon, I go and sit between two beds beside Lerondeau. + I offer him cigarettes, and we talk. This means that we say nothing, or + very little.... But it is not necessary to speak when one has a talk with + Lerondeau. + </p> + <p> + Marie is very fond of cigarettes, but what he likes still better is that I + should come and sit by him for a bit. When I pass through the ward, he + taps coaxingly upon his sheet, as one taps upon a bench to invite a friend + to a seat. + </p> + <p> + Since he told me about his life at home and his campaign, he has not found + much to say to me. He takes the cakes with which his little shelf is + laden, and crunches them with an air of enjoyment. + </p> + <p> + "As for me," he says, "I just eat all the time," and he laughs. + </p> + <p> + If he stops eating to smoke, he laughs again. Then there is an agreeable + silence. Marie looks at me, and begins to laugh again. And when I get up + to go, he says: "Oh, you are not in such a great hurry, we can chat a + little longer!" + </p> + <p> + Lerondeau's leg was such a bad business that it is now permanently shorter + than the other by a good twelve centimetres. So at least it seems to us, + looking down on it from above. + </p> + <p> + But Lerondeau, who has only seen it from afar by raising his head a little + above the table while his wounds are being dressed, has noticed only a + very slight difference in length between his two legs. + </p> + <p> + He said philosophically: + </p> + <p> + "It is shorter, but with a good thick sole...." + </p> + <p> + When Marie was better, he raised himself on his elbow, and he understood + the extent of his injury more clearly. + </p> + <p> + "I shall want a VERY thick sole," he remarked. + </p> + <p> + Now that Lerondeau can sit up, he, too, can estimate the extent of the + damage from above; but he is happy to feel life welling up once more in + him, and he concludes gaily: + </p> + <p> + "What I shall want is not a sole, but a little bench." + </p> + <p> + But Carre is ill, terribly ill. + </p> + <p> + That valiant soul of his seems destined to be left alone, for all else is + failing. + </p> + <p> + He had one sound leg. Now it is stiff and swollen. + </p> + <p> + He had healthy, vigorous arms. Now one of them is covered with abscesses. + </p> + <p> + The joy of breathing no longer exists for Carre, for his cough shakes him + savagely in his bed. + </p> + <p> + The back, by means of which we rest, has also betrayed him. Here and there + it is ulcerated; for man was not meant to lie perpetually on his back, but + only to lie and sleep on it after a day of toil. + </p> + <p> + For man was not really intended to suffer with his miserable, faithless + body! + </p> + <p> + And his heart beats laboriously. + </p> + <p> + There was mischief in the bowel too. So much so, that one day Carre was + unable to control himself, before a good many people who had come in. + </p> + <p> + In spite of our care, in spite of our friendly assurances, Carre was so + ashamed that he wept. He who always said that a man ought not to cry, he + who never shed a tear in the most atrocious suffering, sobbed with shame + on account of this accident. And I could not console him. + </p> + <p> + He no longer listens to all we say to him. He no longer answers our + questions. He has mysterious fits of absence. + </p> + <p> + He who was so dignified in his language, expresses himself and complains + with the words of a child. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes he comes up out of the depths and speaks. + </p> + <p> + He talks of death with an imaginative lucidity which sounds like actual + experience. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes he sees it... And as he gazes, his pupils suddenly distend. + </p> + <p> + But he will not, he cannot make up his mind.... + </p> + <p> + He wants to suffer a little longer. + </p> + <p> + I draw near to his bed in the gathering darkness. His breathing is so + light that suddenly, I stop and listen open-mouthed, full of anxiety. + </p> + <p> + Then Carre suddenly opens his eyes. + </p> + <p> + Will he sigh and groan? No. He smiles and says: + </p> + <p> + "What white teeth you have!" + </p> + <p> + Then he dreams, as if he were dying. + </p> + <p> + Could you have imagined such a martyrdom, my brother, when you were + driving the plough into your little plot of brown earth? + </p> + <p> + Here you are, enduring a death-agony of five months swathed in these livid + wrappings, without even the rewards that are given to others. + </p> + <p> + Your breast, your shroud must be bare of even the humblest of the rewards + of valour, Carre. + </p> + <p> + It was written that you should suffer without purpose and without hope. + </p> + <p> + But I will not let all your sufferings be lost in the abyss. And so I + record them thus at length. + </p> + <p> + Lerondeau has been brought down into the garden. I find him there, + stretched out on a cane chair, with a little kepi pulled down over his + eyes, to shade them from the first spring sunshine. + </p> + <p> + He talks a little, smokes a good deal, and laughs more. + </p> + <p> + I look at his leg, but he hardly ever looks at it himself; he no longer + feels it. + </p> + <p> + He will forget it even more utterly after a while, and he will live as if + it were natural enough for a man to live with a stiff, distorted limb. + </p> + <p> + Forget your leg, forget your sufferings, Lerondeau. But the world must not + forget them. + </p> + <p> + And I leave Marie sitting in the sun, with a fine new pink colour in his + freckled cheeks. + </p> + <p> + Carre died early this morning. Lerondeau leaves us to-morrow. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MEMORIES OF THE MARTYRS + </h2> + <p> + I + </p> + <p> + Were modesty banished from the rest of the earth, it would no doubt find a + refuge in Mouchon's heart. + </p> + <p> + I see him still as he arrived, on a stretcher full of little pebbles, with + his mud be-plastered coat, and his handsome, honest face, like that of a + well-behaved child. + </p> + <p> + "You must excuse me," he said; "we can't keep ourselves very clean." + </p> + <p> + "Have you any lice?" asks the orderly, as he undresses him. + </p> + <p> + Mouchon flushes and looks uneasy. + </p> + <p> + "Well, if I have, they don't really belong to me." + </p> + <p> + He has none, but he has a broken leg, "due to a torpedo." + </p> + <p> + The orderly cuts open his trouser, and I tell him to take off the boot. + Mouchon puts out his hand, and says diffidently: + </p> + <p> + "Never mind the boot." + </p> + <p> + "But, my good fellow, we can't dress your leg without taking off your + boot." + </p> + <p> + Then Mouchon, red and confused, objects: + </p> + <p> + "But if you take off the boot, I'm afraid my foot will smell...." + </p> + <p> + I have often thought of this answer. And believe me, Mouchon, I have not + yet met the prince who is worthy to take off your boots and wash your + humble feet. + </p> + <p> + II + </p> + <p> + With his forceps the doctor lays hold carefully of a mass of bloody + dressings, and draws them gently out of a gaping wound in the abdomen. A + ray of sunshine lights him at his work, and the whole of the frail shed + trembles to the roar of the cannon. + </p> + <p> + "I am a big china-dealer," murmurs the patient. "You come from Paris, and + I do, too. Save me, and you shall see.... I'll give you a fine piece of + china." + </p> + <p> + The plugs are coming out by degrees; the forceps glitter, and the ray of + sunshine seems to tremble under the cannonade, as do the floor, the walls, + the light roof, the whole earth, the whole universe, drunk with fatigue. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly, from the depths of space, a whining sound arises, swells, rends + the air above the shed, and the shell bursts a few yards off, with the + sound of a cracked object breaking. + </p> + <p> + The thin walls seem to quiver under the pressure of the air. The doctor + makes a slight movement of his head, as if to see, after all, where the + thing fell. + </p> + <p> + Then the china-dealer, who noted the movement, says in a quiet voice: + </p> + <p> + "Don't take any notice of those small things, they don't do any harm. Only + save me, and I will give you a beautiful piece of china or earthenware, + whichever you like." + </p> + <p> + III + </p> + <p> + The root of the evil is not so much the shattered leg, as the little wound + in the arm, from which so much good blood was lost. + </p> + <p> + With his livid lips, no longer distinguishable from the rest of his face, + and the immense black pupils of his eyes, the man shows a countenance + irradiated by a steadfast soul, which will not give in till the last + moment. He contemplates the ravages of his body almost severely, and + without illusion, and watching the surgeons as they scrub their hands, he + says in a grave voice: + </p> + <p> + "Tell my wife that my last thoughts were of her and our children." + </p> + <p> + Ah! it was not a veiled question, for, without a moment's hesitation, he + allows us to put the mask over his face. + </p> + <p> + The solemn words seem still to echo through the ward: + </p> + <p> + "Tell my wife..." + </p> + <p> + That manly face is not the face of one who could be deceived by soft words + and consoling phrases. The white blouse turns away. The surgeon's eyes + grow dim behind his spectacles, and in solemn tones he replies: + </p> + <p> + "We will not fail to do so, friend." + </p> + <p> + The patient's eyelids flutter—as one waves a handkerchief from the + deck of a departing steamer—then, breathing in the ether steadily, + he falls into a dark slumber. + </p> + <p> + He never wakes, and we keep our promise to him. + </p> + <p> + IV + </p> + <p> + A few days before the death of Tricot, a very annoying thing happened to + him; a small excrescence, a kind of pimple, appeared on the side of his + nose. + </p> + <p> + Tricot had suffered greatly; only some fragments of his hands remained; + but, above all, he had a great opening in his side, a kind of fetid mouth, + through which the will to live seemed to evaporate. + </p> + <p> + Coughing, spitting, looking about with wide, agonised eyes in search of + elusive breath, having no hands to scratch oneself with, being unable to + eat unaided, and further, never having the smallest desire to eat—could + this be called living? And yet Tricot never gave in. He waged his own war + with the divine patience of a man who had waged the great world war, and + who knows that victory will not come right away. + </p> + <p> + But Tricot had neither allies nor reserves; he was all alone, so wasted + and so exhausted that the day came when he passed almost imperceptibly + from the state of a wounded to that of a dying man. + </p> + <p> + And it was just at this moment that the pimple appeared. + </p> + <p> + Tricot had borne the greatest sufferings courageously; but he seemed to + have no strength to bear this slight addition to his woes. + </p> + <p> + "Monsieur," stammered the orderly who had charge of him, utterly dejected, + "I tell you, that pimple is the spark that makes the cup overflow." + </p> + <p> + And in truth the cup overflowed. This misfortune was too much. Tricot + began to complain, and from that moment I felt that he was doomed. + </p> + <p> + I asked him several times a day, thinking of all his wounds: "How are you, + old fellow?" And he, thinking of nothing but the pimple, answered always: + </p> + <p> + "Very bad, very bad! The pimple is getting bigger." + </p> + <p> + It was true. The pimple had come to a head, and I wanted to prick it. + </p> + <p> + Tricot, who had allowed us to cut into his chest without an anaesthetic, + exclaimed with tears: + </p> + <p> + "No, no more operations! I won't have any more operations." + </p> + <p> + All day long he lamented about his pimple, and the following night he + died. + </p> + <p> + "It was a bad pimple," said the orderly; "it was that which killed him." + </p> + <p> + Alas! It was not a very "bad pimple," but no doubt it killed him. + </p> + <p> + V + </p> + <p> + Mehay was nearly killed, but he did not die; so no great harm was done. + </p> + <p> + The bullet went through his helmet, and only touched the bone. The brain + is all right. So much the better. + </p> + <p> + No sooner had Mehay come to, and hiccoughed a little in memory of the + chloroform, than he began to look round with interest at all that was + happening about him. + </p> + <p> + Three days after the operation, Mehay got up. It would have been useless + to forbid this proceeding. Mehay would have disobeyed orders for the first + time in his life. We could not even think of taking away his clothes. The + brave man never lacks clothes. + </p> + <p> + Mehay accordingly got up, and his illness was a thing of the past. + </p> + <p> + Every morning, Mehay rises before day-break and seizes a broom. Rapidly + and thoroughly, he makes the ward as dean as his own heart. He never + forgets any corner, and he manages to pass the brush gently under the beds + without waking his sleeping comrades, and without disturbing those who are + in pain. Sometimes Mehay hands basins or towels, and he is as gentle as a + woman when he helps to dress Vossaert, whose limbs are numb and painful. + </p> + <p> + At eight o'clock, the ward is in perfect order, and as the dressings are + about to begin, Mehay suddenly appears in a fine clean apron. He watches + my hands carefully as they come and go, and he is always in the right + place to hand the dressing to the forceps, to pour out the spirit, or to + lend a hand with a bandage, for he very soon learned to bandage skilfully. + </p> + <p> + He does not say a word; he just looks. The bit of his forehead that shows + under his own bandages is wrinkled with the earnestness of his attention—and + he has those blue marks by which we recognise the miner. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes it is his turn to have a dressing. But scarcely is it completed + when he is up again with his apron before him, silently busy. + </p> + <p> + At eleven o'clock, Mehay disappears. He has gone, perhaps, to get a breath + of fresh air? Oh, no! Here he is back again with a trayful of bowls. And + he hands round the soup. + </p> + <p> + In the evening he hands the thermometer. He helps the orderlies so much + that he leaves them very little to do. + </p> + <p> + All this time the bones of his skull are at work under his bandages, and + the red flesh is growing. But we are not to trouble about that: it will + manage all alone. The man, however, cannot be idle. He works, and trusts + to his blood, "which is healthy." + </p> + <p> + In the evening, when the ward is lighted by a night-light, and I come in + on tiptoe to give a last look round, I hear a voice laboriously spelling: + "B-O, Bo; B-I, Bi; N-E, Ne, Bobine." It is Mehay, learning to read before + going to bed. + </p> + <p> + VI + </p> + <p> + A lamp has been left alight, because the men are not asleep yet, and they + are allowed to smoke for a while. It would be no fun to smoke, unless one + could see the smoke. + </p> + <p> + The former bedroom of the mistress of the house makes a very light, very + clean ward. Under the draperies which have been fastened up to the ceiling + and covered with sheets, old Louarn lies motionless, waiting for his three + shattered limbs to mend. He is smoking a cigarette, the ash from which + falls upon his breast. Apologising for the little heaps of dirt that make + his bed the despair of the orderlies, he says to me: + </p> + <p> + "You know, a Breton ought to be a bit dirty." + </p> + <p> + I touch the weight attached to his thigh, and he exclaims: + </p> + <p> + "Ma doue! Ma doue! Caste! Caste!" + </p> + <p> + These are oaths of a kind, of his own coining, which make every one laugh, + and himself the first. He adds, as he does every day: + </p> + <p> + "Doctor, you never hurt me so much before as you have done this time." + </p> + <p> + Then he laughs again. + </p> + <p> + Lens is not asleep yet, but he is as silent as usual. He has scarcely + uttered twenty words in three weeks. + </p> + <p> + In a corner, Mehay patiently repeats: "P-A, Pa," and the orderly who is + teaching him to read presses his forefinger on the soiled page. + </p> + <p> + I make my way towards Croin, Octave. I sit down by the bed in silence. + </p> + <p> + Croin turns a face half hidden by bandages to me, and puts a leg damp with + sweat out from under the blankets, for fever runs high just at this time. + He too, is silent; he knows as well as I do that he is not going on well; + but all the same, he hopes I shall go away without speaking to him. + </p> + <p> + No. I must tell him. I bend over him and murmur certain things. + </p> + <p> + He listens, and his chin begins to tremble, his boyish chin, which is + covered with a soft, fair down. + </p> + <p> + Then, with the accent of his province, he says in a tearful, hesitating + voice: + </p> + <p> + "I have already given an eye, must I give a hand too?" + </p> + <p> + His one remaining eye fills with tears. And seeing the sound hand, I press + it gently before I go. + </p> + <p> + VII + </p> + <p> + When I put my fingers near his injured eye, Croin recoils a little. + </p> + <p> + "Don't be afraid," I say to him. + </p> + <p> + "Oh, I'm not afraid!" + </p> + <p> + And he adds proudly: + </p> + <p> + "When a chap has lived on Hill 108, he can't ever be afraid of anything + again." + </p> + <p> + "Then why do you wince?" + </p> + <p> + "It's just my head moving back of its own accord. I never think of it." + </p> + <p> + And it is true; the man is not afraid, but his flesh recoils. + </p> + <p> + When the bandage is properly adjusted, what remains visible of Groin's + face is young, agreeable, charming. I note this with satisfaction, and say + to him: + </p> + <p> + "There's not much damage done on this side. We'll patch you up so well + that you will still be able to make conquests." + </p> + <p> + He smiles, touches his bandage, looks at his mutilated arm, seems to lose + himself for a while in memories, and murmurs: + </p> + <p> + "May be. But the girls will never come after me again as they used to..." + </p> + <p> + VIII + </p> + <p> + "The skin is beginning to form over the new flesh. A few weeks more, and + then a wooden leg. You will run along like a rabbit." + </p> + <p> + Plaquet essays a little dry laugh which means neither yes nor no, but + which reveals a great timidity, and something else, a great anxiety. + </p> + <p> + "For Sundays, you can have an artificial leg. You put a boot on it. The + trouser hides it all. It won't show a bit." + </p> + <p> + The wounded man shakes his head slightly, and listens with a gentle, + incredulous smile. + </p> + <p> + "With an artificial leg, Plaquet, you will, of course, be able to go out. + It will be almost as it was before." + </p> + <p> + Plaquet shakes his head again, and says in a low voice: + </p> + <p> + "Oh, I shall never go out!" + </p> + <p> + "But with a good artificial leg, Plaquet, you will be able to walk almost + as well as before. Why shouldn't you go out?" + </p> + <p> + Plaquet hesitates and remains silent. + </p> + <p> + "Why?" + </p> + <p> + Then in an almost inaudible voice he replies: + </p> + <p> + "I will never go out. I should be ashamed." + </p> + <p> + Plaquet will wear a medal on his breast. He is a brave soldier, and by no + means a fool. But there are very complex feelings which we must not judge + too hastily. + </p> + <p> + IX + </p> + <p> + In the corner of the ward there is a little plank bed which is like all + the other little beds. But buried between its sheets there is the smile of + Mathouillet, which is like no other smile. + </p> + <p> + Mathouillet, after throwing a good many bombs, at last got one himself. In + this disastrous adventure, he lost part of his thigh, received several + wounds, and gradually became deaf. Such is the fate of + bombardier-grenadier Mathouillet. + </p> + <p> + The bombardier-grenadier has a gentle, beardless face, which for many + weeks must have expressed great suffering, and, which is now beginning to + show a little satisfaction. + </p> + <p> + But Mathouillet hears so badly that when one speaks to him he only smiles + in answer. + </p> + <p> + If I come into the ward, Mathouillet's smile awaits and welcomes me. When + the dressing is over, Mathouillet thanks me with a smile. If I look at the + temperature chart, Mathouillet's smile follows me, but not questioningly; + Mathouillet has faith in me, but his smile says a number of unspoken + things that I understand perfectly. Conversation is difficult, on account + of this unfortunate deafness—that is to say, conversation as usually + carried on. But we two, happily, have no need of words. For some time + past, certain smiles have been enough for us. And Mathouillet smiles, not + only with his eyes or with his lips, but with his nose, his beardless + chin, his broad, smooth forehead, crowned by the pale hair of the North, + with all his gentle, boyish face. + </p> + <p> + Now that Mathouillet can get up, he eats at the table, with his comrades. + To call him to meals, Baraffe utters a piercing cry, which reaches the ear + of the bombardier-grenadier. + </p> + <p> + He arrives, shuffling his slippers along the floor, and examines all the + laughing faces. As he cannot hear, he hesitates to sit down, and this time + his smile betrays embarrassment and confusion. + </p> + <p> + Coming very close to him, I say loudly: + </p> + <p> + "Your comrades are calling you to dinner, my boy." + </p> + <p> + "Yes, yes," he replies, "but because they know I am deaf, they sometimes + try to play tricks on me." + </p> + <p> + His cheeks flush warmly as he makes this impromptu confidence. Then he + makes up his mind to sit down, after interrogating me with his most + affectionate smile. + </p> + <p> + X + </p> + <p> + Once upon a time, Paga would have been called un type; now he is un + numero. This means that he is an original, that his ways of considering + and practising life are unusual; and as life here is reduced entirely to + terms of suffering, it means that his manner of suffering differs from + that of other people. + </p> + <p> + From the very beginning, during those hard moments when the wounded man + lies plunged in stupor and self-forgetfulness, Paga distinguished himself + by some remarkable eccentricities. + </p> + <p> + Left leg broken, right foot injured, such was the report on Paga's + hospital sheet. + </p> + <p> + Now the leg was not doing at all well. Every morning, the good head doctor + stared at the swollen flesh with his little round discoloured eyes and + said: "Come, we must just wait till to-morrow." But Paga did not want to + wait. + </p> + <p> + Flushed with fever, his hands trembling, his southern accent exaggerated + by approaching delirium, he said, as soon as we came to see him. + </p> + <p> + "My wish, my wish! You know my wish, doctor." + </p> + <p> + Then, lower, with a kind of passion: + </p> + <p> + "I want you to cut it off, you know. I want you to cut this leg. Oh! I + shan't be happy till it is done. Doctor, cut it, cut it off." + </p> + <p> + We didn't cut it at all, and Paga's business was very successfully + arranged. I even feel sure that this leg became quite a respectable limb + again. + </p> + <p> + I am bound to say Paga understood that he had meddled with things which + did not concern him. He nevertheless continued to offer imperative advice + as to the manner in which he wished to be nursed. + </p> + <p> + "Don't pull off the dressings! I won't have it. Do you hear, doctor? Don't + pull. I won't have it." + </p> + <p> + Then he would begin to tremble nervously all over his body and to say: + </p> + <p> + "I am quite calm! Oh, I am really calm. See, Michelet, see, Brugneau, I am + calm. Doctor, see, I am quite calm." + </p> + <p> + Meantime the dressings were gradually loosening under a trickle of water, + and Paga muttered between his teeth: + </p> + <p> + "He's pulling, he's pulling.... Oh, the cruel man! I won't have it, I + won't have it." + </p> + <p> + Then suddenly, with flaming cheeks: + </p> + <p> + "That's right. That's right! See, Michelet, see, Brugneau: the dressings + have come away. Sergeant, Sergeant, the dressings are loosened." + </p> + <p> + He clapped his hands, possessed by a furtive joy; then he suddenly became + conscious, and with a deep furrow between his brows, he began to give + orders again. + </p> + <p> + "Not any tincture of iodine to-day, doctor. Take away those forceps, + doctor, take them away." + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile the implacable forceps did their work, the tincture of iodine + performed its chilly function; then Paga yelled: + </p> + <p> + "Quickly, quickly. Kiss me, kiss me." + </p> + <p> + With his arms thrown out like tentacles, he beat upon the air, and seized + haphazard upon the first blouse that passed. Then he would embrace it + frantically. + </p> + <p> + Thus it happened that he once showered kisses on Michelet's hands, objects + by no means suitable for such a demonstration. Michelet said, laughing: + </p> + <p> + "Come, stop it; my hands are dirty." + </p> + <p> + And then poor Paga began to kiss Michelet's bare, hairy arms, saying + distractedly: + </p> + <p> + "If your hands are dirty, your arms are all right." + </p> + <p> + Alas, what has become of all those who, during days and nights of patient + labour, I saw gradually shaking off the dark empire of the night and + coming back again to joy? What has become of the smouldering faggot which + an ardent breath finally kindled into flame? + </p> + <p> + What became of you, precious lives, poor wonderful souls, for whom I + fought so many obscure great battles, and who went off again into the + realm of adventure? + </p> + <p> + You, Paga, little fellow, where are you? Do you remember the time when I + used to dress your two wounds alternately, and when you said to me with + great severity: + </p> + <p> + "The leg to-day, only the leg. It's not the day for the foot." + </p> + <p> + XI + </p> + <p> + Sergeant Lecolle is distinguished by a huge black beard, which fails to + give a ferocious expression to the gentlest face in the world. + </p> + <p> + He arrived the day little Delporte died, and scarcely had he emerged from + the dark sleep when, opening his eyes, he saw Delporte die. + </p> + <p> + I went to speak to him several times. He looked so exhausted, his black + beard was so mournful that I kept on telling him: "Sergeant, your wound is + not serious." + </p> + <p> + Each time he shook his head as if to say that he took but little interest + in the matter, and tried to close his eyes. + </p> + <p> + Lecolle is too nervous; he was not able to close his eyes, and he saw + Delporte dead, and he had been obliged to witness all Delporte's death + agony; for when one has a wound in the right shoulder, one can only lie + upon the left shoulder. + </p> + <p> + The ward was full, I could not change the sergeant's place, and yet I + should have liked to let him be alone all day with his own pain. + </p> + <p> + Now Lecolle is better; he feels better without much exuberance, with a + seriousness which knows and foresees the bufferings of Fate. + </p> + <p> + Lecolle was a stenographer "in life." We are no longer "in life," but the + good stenographer retains his principles. When his wounds are dressed, he + looks carefully at the little watch on his wrist. He moans at intervals, + and stops suddenly to say: + </p> + <p> + "It has taken fifty seconds to-day to loosen the dressings. Yesterday, you + took sixty-two seconds." + </p> + <p> + His first words after the operation were: + </p> + <p> + "Will you please tell me how many minutes I was unconscious?" + </p> + <p> + XII + </p> + <p> + I first saw Derancourt in the room adjoining the chapel. A band of + crippled men, returning from Germany after a long captivity, had just been + brought in there. + </p> + <p> + There were some fifty of them, all looking with delighted eyes at the + walls, the benches, the telephone, all the modest objects in this + waiting-room, objects which are so much more attractive under the light of + France than in harsh exile. + </p> + <p> + The waiting-room seemed to have been transformed into a museum of misery: + there were blind men, legless and armless men, paralysed men, their faces + ravaged by fire and powder. + </p> + <p> + A big fellow said, lifting his deformed arm with an effort: + </p> + <p> + "I tricked them; they thought to the end that I was really paralysed. I + look well, but that's because they sent us to Constance for the last week, + to fatten us up." + </p> + <p> + A dark, thin man was walking to and fro, towing his useless foot after him + by the help of a string which ran down his trouser leg; and he laughed: + </p> + <p> + "I walk more with my fist than with my foot. Gentlemen, gentlemen, who + would like to pull Punch's string?" + </p> + <p> + All wore strange costumes, made up of military clothing and patched + civilian garments. + </p> + <p> + On a bench sat fifteen or twenty men with about a dozen legs between them. + It was among these that I saw Derancourt. He was holding his crutches in + one hand and looking round him, stroking his long fair moustache absently. + </p> + <p> + Derancourt became my friend. + </p> + <p> + His leg had been cut off at the thigh, and this had not yet healed; he + had, further, a number of other wounds which had closed more or less + during his captivity. + </p> + <p> + Derancourt never talked of himself, much less of his misfortune. I knew + from his comrades that he had fought near Longwy, his native town, and + that he had lain grievously wounded for nine days on the battlefield. He + had seen his father, who had come to succour him, killed at his side; then + he had lain beside the corpse, tortured by a delirious dream in which nine + days and nine nights had followed one upon the other, like a dizziness of + alternate darkness and dazzling light. In the mornings, he sucked the wet + grass he clutched when he stretched out his hands. + </p> + <p> + Afterwards he had suffered in Germany, and finally he had come back to + France, mutilated, covered with wounds, and knowing that his wife and + children were left without help and without resources in the invaded + territory. + </p> + <p> + Of all this Derancourt said not a word. He apparently did not know how to + complain, and he contemplated the surrounding wretchedness with a grave + look, full of experience, which would have seemed a little cold but for + the tremulous mobility of his features. + </p> + <p> + Derancourt never played, never laughed. He sought solitude, and spent + hours, turning his head slowly from side to side, contemplating the walls + and the ceiling like one who sees things within himself. + </p> + <p> + The day came when we had to operate on Derancourt, to make his stump of a + thigh serviceable. + </p> + <p> + He was laid on the table. He remained calm and self-controlled as always, + looking at the preparations for the operation with a kind of indifference. + </p> + <p> + We put the chloroform pad under his nose; he drew two or three deep + breaths, and then a strange thing happened: Derancourt began to sob in a + terrible manner, and to talk of all those things he had never mentioned. + The grief he had suppressed for months overflowed, or rather, rushed out + in desperate, heartrending lamentations. + </p> + <p> + It was not the disorderly intoxication, the muscular, animal rebellion of + those who are thrown into this artificial sleep. It was the sudden + break-up of an overstrained will under a slight shock. For months + Derancourt had braced himself against despair, and now, all of a sudden, + he gave way, and abandoned himself to poignant words and tears. The flood + withdrew suddenly, leaving the horrible, chaotic depths beneath the sea + visible. + </p> + <p> + We ceased scrubbing our hands, and stood aghast and deeply moved, full of + sadness and respect. + </p> + <p> + Then some one exclaimed: + </p> + <p> + "Quick! quick! More chloroform! Stupefy him outright, let him sleep." + </p> + <p> + XIII + </p> + <p> + "But a man can't be paralysed by a little hole in his back! I tell you it + was only a bullet. You must take it out, doctor. Take it out, and I shall + be all right." + </p> + <p> + Thus said a Zouave, who had been lying helpless for three days on his bed. + </p> + <p> + "If you knew how strong I am! Look at my arms! No one could unhook a bag + like me, and heave it over my shoulder—tock! A hundred kilos—with + one jerk!" + </p> + <p> + The doctor looked at the muscular torso, and his face expressed pity, + regret, embarrassment, and, perhaps, a certain wish to go away. + </p> + <p> + "But this wretched bullet prevents me from moving my legs. You must take + it out, doctor, you must take it out!" + </p> + <p> + The doctor glances at the paralysed legs, and the swollen belly, already + lifeless. He knows that the bullet broke the spine, and cut through the + marrow which sent law and order into all this now inanimate flesh. + </p> + <p> + "Operate, doctor. Look you, a healthy chap like me would soon get well." + </p> + <p> + The doctor stammers vague sentences: the operation would be too serious + for the present... better wait.... + </p> + <p> + "No, no. Never fear. My health is first-rate. Don't be afraid, the + operation is bound to be a success." + </p> + <p> + His rugged face is contracted by his fixed idea. His voice softens; blind + confidence and supplication give it an unusual tone. His heavy eyebrows + meet and mingle under the stress of his indomitable will; his soul makes + such an effort that the immobility of his legs seems suddenly intolerable. + Heavens! Can a man WILL so intensely, and yet be powerless to control his + own body? + </p> + <p> + "Oh, operate, operate! You will see how pleased I shall be!" + </p> + <p> + The doctor twists the sheet round his forefinger; then, hearing a wounded + man groaning in the next ward, he gets up, says he will come back + presently, and escapes. + </p> + <p> + XIV + </p> + <p> + The colloquy between the rival gods took place at the foot of the great + staircase. + </p> + <p> + The Arab soldier had just died. It was the Arab one used to see under a + shed, seated gravely on the ground in the midst of other magnificent + Arabs. In those days they had boots of crimson leather, and majestic red + mantles. They used to sit in a circle, contemplating from under their + turbans the vast expanse of mud watered by the skies of Artois. To-day, + they wear the ochre helmet, and show the profiles of Saracen warriors. + </p> + <p> + The Algerian has just been killed, kicked in the belly by his beautiful + white horse. + </p> + <p> + In the ambulance there was a Mussulman orderly, a well-to-do tradesman, + who had volunteered for the work. He, on the other hand, was extremely + European, nay, Parisian; but a plump, malicious smile showed itself in the + midst of his crisp grey beard, and he had the look in the eyes peculiar to + those who come from the other side of the Mediterranean. + </p> + <p> + Rashid "behaved very well." He had found native words when tending the + dying man, and had lavished on him the consolations necessary to those of + his country. + </p> + <p> + When the Algerian was dead, he arranged the winding-sheet himself, in his + own fashion; then he lighted a cigarette, and set out in search of Monet + and Renaud. + </p> + <p> + For lack of space, we had no mortuary at the time in the ambulance. + Corpses were placed in the chapel of the cemetery while awaiting burial. + The military burial-ground had been established within the precincts of + the church, close by the civilian cemetery, and in a few weeks it had + invaded it like a cancer and threatened to devour it. + </p> + <p> + Rashid had thought of everything, and this was why he went in search of + Monet and Renaud, Catholic priests and ambulance orderlies of the second + class. + </p> + <p> + The meeting took place at the foot of the great staircase. Leaning over + the balustrade, I listened, and watched the colloquy of the rival gods. + </p> + <p> + Monet was thirty years old; he had fine, sombre eyes, and a stiff beard, + from which a pipe emerged. Renaud carried the thin face of a seminarist a + little on one side. + </p> + <p> + Monet and Renaud listened gravely, as became people who were deciding in + the Name of the Father. Rashid was pleading for his dead Arab with supple + eloquence, wrapped in a cloud of tobacco-smoke: + </p> + <p> + "We cannot leave the Arab's corpse under a wagon, in the storm. ... This + man died for France, at his post.... He had a right to all honours, and it + was hard enough as it was that he could not have the obsequies he would + surely have had in his own country." + </p> + <p> + Monet nodded approvingly, and Renaud, his mouth half open, was seeking + some formula. + </p> + <p> + It came, and this was it: + </p> + <p> + "Very well, Monsieur Rashid, take him into the church; that is God's house + for every one." + </p> + <p> + Rashid bowed with perfect deference, and went back to his dead. + </p> + <p> + Oh, he arranged everything very well! He had made this funeral a personal + matter. He was the family, the master of the ceremonies, almost the + priest. + </p> + <p> + The Algerian's body accordingly lay in the chapel, covered with the old + faded flag and a handful of chrysanthemums. + </p> + <p> + It was here the bearers came to take it, and carry it to CONSECRATED + GROUND, to lie among the other comrades. + </p> + <p> + Monet and Renaud were with us when it was lowered into the grave. Rashid + represented the dead man's kindred with much dignity. He held something in + his hand which he planted in the ground before going away. It was that + crescent of plain deal at the end of a stick which is still to be seen in + the midst of the worm-eaten crosses, in the shadow of the belfry of L——. + </p> + <p> + There the same decay works towards the intermingling and the + reconciliation of ancient symbols and ancient dogmas. + </p> + <p> + XV + </p> + <p> + Nogue is courageous, but Norman; this gives to courage a special form, + which excludes neither reserve, nor prudence, nor moderation of language. + </p> + <p> + On the day when he was wounded, he bore a preliminary operation with + perfect calm. Lifting up his shattered arm, I said: + </p> + <p> + "Are you suffering very much?" And he barely opened his lips to reply: + </p> + <p> + "Well... perhaps a bit." + </p> + <p> + Fever came the following days, and with it a certain discomfort. Nogue + could not eat, and when asked if he did not feel rather hungry, he shook + his head: + </p> + <p> + "I don't think so." + </p> + <p> + Well, the arm was broken very high up, the wound looked unhealthy, the + fever ran high, and we made up our minds that it was necessary to come to + a decision. + </p> + <p> + "My poor Nogue," I said, "we really can't do anything with that arm of + yours. Be sensible. Let us take it off." + </p> + <p> + If we had waited for his answer, Nogue would have been dead by now. His + face expressed great dissatisfaction, but he said neither yes nor no. + </p> + <p> + "Don't be afraid, Nogue. I will guarantee the success of the operation." + </p> + <p> + Then he asked to make his will. When the will had been made, Nogue was + laid upon the table and operated upon, without having formulated either + consent or refusal. + </p> + <p> + When the first dressing was made, Nogue looked at his bleeding shoulder, + and said: + </p> + <p> + "I suppose you couldn't have managed to leave just a little bit of arm?" + </p> + <p> + After a few days the patient was able to sit up in an arm-chair. His whole + being bore witness to a positive resurrection, but his tongue remained + cautious. + </p> + <p> + "Well, now, you see, you're getting on capitally." + </p> + <p> + "Hum... might be better." + </p> + <p> + Never could he make up his mind to give his whole-hearted approval, even + after the event, to the decision which had saved his life. When we said to + him: + </p> + <p> + "YOU'RE all right. We've done the business for YOU!" he would not commit + himself. + </p> + <p> + "We shall see, we shall see." + </p> + <p> + He got quite well, and we sent him into the interior. Since then, he has + written to us, "business letters," prudent letters which he signs "a poor + mutilated fellow." + </p> + <p> + XVI + </p> + <p> + Lapointe and Ropiteau always meet in the dressing ward. Ropiteau is + brought in on a stretcher, and Lapointe arrives on foot, jauntily, holding + up his elbow, which is going on "as well as possible." + </p> + <p> + Lying on the table, the dressings removed from his thigh, Ropiteau waits + to be tended, looking at a winter fly walking slowly along the ceiling, + like an old man bowed down with sorrow. As soon as Ropiteau's wounds are + laid bare, Lapointe, who is versed in these matters, opens the + conversation. + </p> + <p> + "What do they put on it?" + </p> + <p> + "Well, only yellow spirit." + </p> + <p> + "That's the strongest of all. It stings, but it is first-rate for + strengthening the flesh. I always get ether." + </p> + <p> + "Ether stinks so!" + </p> + <p> + "Yes, it stinks, but one gets used to it. It warms the blood. Don't you + have tubes any longer?" + </p> + <p> + "They took out the last on Tuesday." + </p> + <p> + "Mine have been taken away, too. Wait a minute, old chap, let me look at + it. Does it itch?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes, it feels like rats gnawing at me." + </p> + <p> + "If it feels like rats, it's all right. Mine feels like rats, too. Don't + you want to scratch?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes, but they say I mustn't." + </p> + <p> + "No, of course, you mustn't.... But you can always tap on the dressing a + little with your finger. That is a relief." + </p> + <p> + Lapointe leans over and examines Ropiteau's large wound. + </p> + <p> + "Old chap, it's getting on jolly well. Same here; I'll show you presently. + It's red, the skin is beginning to grow again. But it is thin, very thin." + </p> + <p> + Lapointe sits down to have his dressing cut away, then he makes a half + turn towards Ropiteau. + </p> + <p> + "You see—getting on famously." + </p> + <p> + Ropiteau admires unreservedly. + </p> + <p> + "Yes, you're right. It looks first-rate." + </p> + <p> + "And you know... such a beastly mess came out of it." + </p> + <p> + At this moment, the busy forceps cover up the wounds with the dressing, + and the operation comes to an end. + </p> + <p> + "So long!" says Lapointe to his elbow, casting a farewell glance at it. + And he adds, as he gets to the door: + </p> + <p> + "Now there are only the damned fingers that won't get on. But I don't + care. I've made up my mind to be a postman." + </p> + <p> + XVII + </p> + <p> + Bouchenton was not very communicative. We knew nothing of his past + history. As to his future plans, he revealed them by one day presenting to + the head doctor for his signature a paper asking leave to open a Moorish + cafe at Medea after his recovery, a request the head doctor felt himself + unable to endorse. + </p> + <p> + Bouchenton had undergone a long martyrdom in order to preserve an arm from + which the bone had been partially removed, but from which a certain amount + of work might still be expected. He screamed like the others, and his cry + was "Mohabdi! Mohabdi!" When the forceps came near, he cried: "Don't put + them in!" And after this he maintained a silence made up of dignity and + indolence. During the day he was to be seen wandering about the wards, + holding up his ghostly muffled arm with his sound hand. In the evening, he + learned to play draughts, because it is a serious, silent game, and + requires consideration. + </p> + <p> + Now one day when Bouchenton, seated on a chair, was waiting for his wound + to be dressed, the poor adjutant Figuet began to complain in a voice that + was no more than the shadow of a voice, just as his body was no more than + the shadow of a body. + </p> + <p> + Figuet was crawling at the time up the slopes of a Calvary where he was + soon to fall once more, never to rise again. + </p> + <p> + The most stupendous courage and endurance foundered then in a despair for + which there seemed henceforth to be no possible alleviation. + </p> + <p> + Figuet, I say, began to complain, and every one in the ward feigned to be + engrossed in his occupation, and to hear nothing, because when such a man + began to groan, the rest felt that the end of all things had come. + </p> + <p> + Bouchenton turned his head, looked at the adjutant, seized his flabby arm + carefully with his right hand, and set out. Walking with little short + steps he came to the table where the suffering man lay. + </p> + <p> + Stretching out his neck, his great bowed body straining in an effort of + attention, he looked at the wounds, the pus, the soiled bandages, the + worn, thin face, and his own wooden visage laboured under the stress of + all kinds of feelings. + </p> + <p> + Then Bouchenton did a very simple thing; he relaxed his hold on his own + boneless arm, held out his right hand to Figuet, seized his transparent + fingers and held them tightly clasped. + </p> + <p> + The adjutant ceased groaning. As long as the silent pressure lasted, he + ceased to complain, ceased perhaps to suffer. Bouchenton kept his right + hand there as long as it was necessary. + </p> + <p> + I saw this, Bouchenton, my brother. I will not forget it. And I saw, too, + your aching, useless left arm, which you had been obliged to abandon in + order to have a hand to give, hanging by your side like a limp rag. + </p> + <p> + XVIII + </p> + <p> + To be over forty years old, to be a tradesman of repute, well known + throughout one's quarter, to be at the head of a prosperous + provision-dealer's business, and to get two fragments of shell—in + the back and the left buttock respectively—is really a great + misfortune; yet this is what happened to M. Levy, infantryman and + Territorial. + </p> + <p> + I never spoke familiarly to M. Levy, because of his age and his air of + respectability; and perhaps, too, because, in his case, I felt a great and + special need to preserve my authority. + </p> + <p> + Monsieur Levy was not always "a good patient." When I first approached + him, he implored me not to touch him "at any price." + </p> + <p> + I disregarded these injunctions, and did what was necessary. Throughout + the process, Monsieur Levy was snoring, be it said. But he woke up at + last, uttered one or two piercing cries, and stigmatised me as a "brute." + All right. + </p> + <p> + Then I showed him the big pieces of cast-iron I had removed from his back + and his buttock respectively. Monsieur Levy's eyes at once filled with + tears; he murmured a few feeling words about his family, and then pressed + my hands warmly: "Thank you, thank you, dear Doctor." + </p> + <p> + Since then, Monsieur Levy has suffered a good deal, I must admit. There + are the plugs! And those abominable india-rubber tubes we push into the + wounds! Monsieur Levy, kneeling and prostrating himself, his head in his + bolster, suffered every day and for several days without stoicism or + resignation. I was called an "assassin" and also on several occasions, a + "brute." All right. + </p> + <p> + However, as I was determined that Monsieur Levy should get well, I renewed + the plugs, and looked sharply after the famous india-rubber tubes. + </p> + <p> + The time came when my hands were warmly pressed and my patient said: + "Thank you, thank you, dear Doctor," every day. + </p> + <p> + At last Monsieur Levy ceased to suffer, and confined himself to the + peevish murmurs of a spoilt beauty or a child that has been scolded. But + now no one takes him seriously. He has become the delight of the ward; he + laughs so heartily when the dressing is over, he is naturally so gay and + playful, that I am rather at a loss as to the proper expression to assume + when, alluding to the past, he says, with a look in which good nature, + pride, simplicity, and a large proportion of playful malice are mingled: + </p> + <p> + "I suffered so much! so much!" + </p> + <p> + XIX + </p> + <p> + He was no grave, handsome Arab, looking as if he had stepped from the + pages of the "Arabian Nights," but a kind of little brown monster with an + overhanging forehead and ugly, scanty hair. + </p> + <p> + He lay upon the table, screaming, because his abdomen was very painful and + his hip was all tumefied. What could we say to him? He could understand + nothing; he was strange, terrified, pitiable.... + </p> + <p> + At my wits' ends, I took out a cigarette and placed it between his lips. + His whole face changed. He took hold of the cigarette delicately between + two bony fingers; he had a way of holding it which was a marvel of + aristocratic elegance. + </p> + <p> + While we finished the dressing, the poor fellow smoked slowly and gravely, + with all the distinction of an Oriental prince; then, with a negligent + gesture, he threw away the cigarette, of which he had only smoked half. + </p> + <p> + Presently, suddenly becoming an animal, he spit upon my apron, and kissed + my hand like a dog, repeating something which sounded like "Bouia! Bouia!" + </p> + <p> + XX + </p> + <p> + Gautreau looked like a beast of burden. He was heavy, square, solid of + base and majestic of neck and throat. What he could carry on his back + would have crushed an ordinary man; he had big bones, so hard that the + fragment of shell which struck him on the skull only cracked it, and got + no further into it. Gautreau arrived at the hospital alone, on foot; he + sat down on a chair in the corner, saying: + </p> + <p> + "No need to hurry; it's only a scratch." + </p> + <p> + We gave him a cup of tea with rum in it, and he began to hum: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + En courant par les epeignes + Je m'etios fait un ecourchon, + Et en courant par les epeignes + Et en courant apres not' couchon. +</pre> + <p> + "Ah!" said Monsieur Boissin, "you are a man! Come here, let me see." + </p> + <p> + Gautreau went into the operating ward saying: + </p> + <p> + "It feels queer to be walking on dry ground when you've just come off the + slime. You see: it's only a scratch. But one never knows: there may be + some bits left in it." + </p> + <p> + Dr. Boussin probed the wound, and felt the cracked bone. He was an old + surgeon who had his own ideas about courage and pain. He made up his mind. + </p> + <p> + "I am in a hurry; you are a man. There is just a little something to be + done to you. Kneel down there and don't stir." + </p> + <p> + A few minutes later, Gautreau was on his knees, holding on to the leg of + the table. His head was covered with blood-stained bandages, and Dr. + Boussin, chisel in hand, was tapping on his skull with the help of a + little mallet, like a sculptor. Gautreau exclaimed: + </p> + <p> + "Monsieur Bassin, Monsieur Bassin, you're hurting me." + </p> + <p> + "Not Bassin, but Boussin," replied the old man calmly. + </p> + <p> + "Well, Boussin, if you like." + </p> + <p> + There was a silence, and then Gautreau suddenly added: + </p> + <p> + "Monsieur Bassin, you are killing me with these antics." + </p> + <p> + "No fear!" + </p> + <p> + "Monsieur Bassin, I tell you you're killing me." + </p> + <p> + "Just a second more." + </p> + <p> + "Monsieur Bassin, you're driving nails into my head, it's a shame." + </p> + <p> + "I've almost finished." + </p> + <p> + "Monsieur Bassin, I can't stand any more." + </p> + <p> + "It's all over now," said the surgeon, laying down his instruments. + </p> + <p> + Gautreau's head was swathed with cotton wool and he left the ward. + </p> + <p> + "The old chap means well," he said, laughing, "but fancy knocking like + that... with a hammer! It's not that it hurts so much; the pain was no + great matter. But it kills one, that sort of thing, and I'm not going to + stand that." + </p> + <p> + XXI + </p> + <p> + There is only one man in the world who can hold Hourticq's leg, and that + is Monet. + </p> + <p> + Hourticq, who is a Southerner, cries despairingly: "Oh, cette jammbe, + cette jammbe!" And his anxious eyes look eagerly round for some one: not + his doctor, but his orderly, Monet. Whatever happens, the doctor will + always do those things which doctors do. Monet is the only person who can + take the heel and then the foot in both hands, raise the leg gently, and + hold it in the air as long as it is necessary. + </p> + <p> + There are people, it seems, who think this notion ridiculous. They are all + jealous persons who envy Monet's position and would like to show that they + too know how to hold Hourticq's leg properly. But it is not my business to + show favour to the ambitious. As soon as Hourticq is brought in, I call + Monet. If Monet is engaged, well, I wait. He comes, lays hold of the leg, + and Hourticq ceases to lament. It is sometimes a long business, very long; + big drops of sweat come out on Monet's forehead. But I know that he would + not give up his place for anything in the world. + </p> + <p> + When Mazy arrived at the hospital, Hourticq, who is no egoist, said to him + at once in a low tone: + </p> + <p> + "Yours is a leg too, isn't it? You must try to get Monet to hold it for + you." + </p> + <p> + XXII + </p> + <p> + If Bouchard were not so bored, he would not be very wretched, for he is + very courageous, and he has a good temper. But he is terribly bored, in + his gentle, uncomplaining fashion. He is too ill to talk or play games. He + cannot sleep; he can only contemplate the wall, and his own thoughts which + creep slowly along it, like caterpillars. + </p> + <p> + In the morning, I bring a catheter with me, and when Bouchard's wounds are + dressed, I apply it, for unfortunately, he can no longer perform certain + functions independently. + </p> + <p> + Bouchard has crossed his hands behind the nape of his neck, and watches + the process with a certain interest. I ask: + </p> + <p> + "Did I hurt you? Is it very unpleasant?" + </p> + <p> + Bouchard gives a melancholy smile and shakes his head: + </p> + <p> + "Oh, no, not at all! In fact it rather amuses me. It makes a few minutes + pass. The day is so long...." + </p> + <p> + XXIII THOUGHTS OF PROSPER RUFFIN + </p> + <p> + ... God! How awful it is in this carriage! Who is it who is groaning like + that? It's maddening! And then, all this would never have happened if they + had only brought the coffee at the right time. Well now, a wretched 77... + oh, no! Who is it who is groaning like that? God, another jolt! No, no, + man, we are not salad. Take care there. My kidneys are all smashed. + </p> + <p> + Ah! now something is dripping on my nose. Hi! You up there, what's + happening? He doesn't answer. I suppose it's blood, all this mess. + </p> + <p> + Now again, some one is beginning to squeal like a pig. By the way, can it + be me? What! it was I who was groaning! Upon my word, it's a little too + strong, that! It was I myself who was making all the row, and I did not + know it. It's odd to hear oneself screaming. + </p> + <p> + Ah! now it's stopping, their beastly motor. + </p> + <p> + Look, there's the sun! What's that tree over there? I know, it's a + Japanese pine. Well, you see, I'm a gardener, old chap. Oh, oh, oh! My + back! What will Felicie say to me? + </p> + <p> + Look, there's Felicie coming down to the washing trough. She pretends not + to see me.... I will steal behind the elder hedge. Felicie! Felicie! I + have a piece of a 77 in my kidneys. I like her best in her blue bodice. + </p> + <p> + What are you putting over my nose, you people? It stinks horribly. I am + choking, I tell you. Felicie, Felicie. Put on your blue bodice with the + white spots, my little Feli... Oh, but... oh, but...! + </p> + <p> + Oh, the Whitsuntide bells already! God—the bells already... the + Whitsun bells... the bells.... + </p> + <p> + XXIV + </p> + <p> + I remember him very well, although he was not long with us. Indeed I think + that I shall never forget him, and yet he stayed such a short time.... + </p> + <p> + When he arrived, we told him that an operation was necessary, and he made + a movement with his head, as if to say that it was our business, not his. + </p> + <p> + We operated, and as soon as he recovered consciousness, he went off again + into a dream which was like a glorious delirium, silent and haughty. + </p> + <p> + His breathing was so impeded by blood that it sounded like groaning; but + his eyes were full of a strange serenity. That look was never with us. + </p> + <p> + I had to uncover and dress his wounds several times; and THOSE WOUNDS MUST + HAVE SUFFERED. But to the last, he himself seemed aloof from everything, + even his own sufferings. + </p> + <p> + XXV + </p> + <p> + "Come in here. You can see him once more." + </p> + <p> + I open the door, and push the big fair artilleryman into the room where + his brother has just died. + </p> + <p> + I turn back the sheet and uncover the face of the corpse. The flesh is + still warm. + </p> + <p> + The big fellow looks like a peasant. He holds his helmet in both hands, + and stares at his brother's face with eyes full of horror and amazement. + Then suddenly, he begins to cry out: + </p> + <p> + "Poor Andre! Poor Andre!" + </p> + <p> + This cry of the rough man is unexpected, and grandiose as the voice of + ancient tragedians chanting the threnody of a hero. + </p> + <p> + Then he drops his helmet, throws himself on his knees beside the + death-bed, takes the dead face between his hands and kisses it gently and + slowly with a little sound of the lips, as one kisses a baby's hand. + </p> + <p> + I take him by the arm and lead him away. His sturdy body is shaken by sobs + which are like the neighing of a horse; he is blinded by his tears, and + knocks against all the furniture. He can do nothing but lament in a broken + voice: + </p> + <p> + "Poor Andre! Poor Andre!" + </p> + <p> + XXVI + </p> + <p> + La Gloriette is amongst the pine-trees. I lift up a corner of the canvas + and he is there. In spite of the livid patches on the skin, in spite of + the rigidity of the features, and the absence for all time of the glance, + it is undoubtedly the familiar face. + </p> + <p> + What a long time he suffered to win the right to be at last this thing + which suffers no more! + </p> + <p> + I draw back the winding-sheet. The body is as yet but little touched by + corruption. The dressings are in place, as before. And as before, I think, + as I draw back the sheet, of the look he will turn on me at the moment of + suffering. + </p> + <p> + But there is no longer any look, no longer any suffering, no longer even + any movements. Only, only unimaginable eternity. + </p> + <p> + For whom is the damp autumn breeze which flutters the canvas hung before + the door? For whom the billowy murmur of the pine-trees and the rays of + light crossed by a flight of insects? For whom this growling of cannon + mingling now with the landscape like one of the sounds of nature? For me + only, for me, alone here with the dead. + </p> + <p> + The corpse is still so near to the living man that I cannot make up my + mind that I am alone, that I cannot make up my mind to think as when I am + alone. + </p> + <p> + For indeed we spent too many days hoping together, enduring together, and + if you will allow me to say so, my comrade, suffering together. We spent + too many days wishing for the end of the fever, examining the wound, + searching after the deeply rooted cause of the disaster—both + tremulous, you from the effort to bear your pain, I sometimes from having + inflicted it. + </p> + <p> + We spent so many days, do you remember, oh, body without a soul ... so + many days fondly expecting the medal you had deserved. But it seems that + one must have given an eye or a limb to be put on the list, and you, all + of a sudden, you gave your life. The medal had not come, for it does not + travel so quickly as death. + </p> + <p> + So many days! And now we are together again, for the last time. + </p> + <p> + Well! I came for a certain purpose. I came to learn certain things at last + that your body can tell me now. + </p> + <p> + I open the case. As before, I cut the dressings with the shining scissors. + And I was just about to say to you, as before: "If I hurt you, call out." + </p> + <p> + XXVII + </p> + <p> + At the edge of the beetroot field, a few paces from the road, in the white + sand of Champagne, there is a burial-ground. + </p> + <p> + Branches of young beech encircle it, making a rustic barrier that shuts + out nothing, but allows the eyes and the winds to wander at will. There is + a porch like those of Norman gardens. Near the entrance four pine-trees + were planted, and these have died standing at their posts, like soldiers. + </p> + <p> + It is a burial-ground of men. + </p> + <p> + In the villages, round the churches, or on the fair hill-sides, among + vines and flowers, there are ancient graveyards which the centuries filled + slowly, and where woman sleeps beside man, and the child beside the + grandfather. + </p> + <p> + But this burial-ground owes nothing to old age or sickness. It is the + burial-ground of young, strong men. + </p> + <p> + We may read their names on the hundreds of little crosses which repeat + daily in speechless unison: "There must be something more precious than + life, more necessary than life... since we are here." + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DEATH OF MERCIER + </h2> + <p> + Mercier is dead, and I saw his corpse weep.... I did not think such a + thing possible. The orderly had just washed his face and combed his grey + hair. + </p> + <p> + I said: "You are not forty yet, my poor Mercier, and your hair is almost + white already." + </p> + <p> + "It is because my life has been a very hard one, and I have had so many + sorrows. I have worked so hard... so hard! And I have had so little luck." + </p> + <p> + There are pitiful little wrinkles all over his face; a thousand + disappointments have left indelible traces there. And yet his eyes are + always smiling; from out his faded features they shine, bright with an + artless candour and radiant with hope. + </p> + <p> + "You will cure me, and perhaps I shall be luckier in the future." + </p> + <p> + I say "yes," and I think, "Alas! No, no." + </p> + <p> + But suddenly he calls me. Great dark hollows appear under the smiling + eyes. A livid sweat bathes his forehead. + </p> + <p> + "Come, come!" he says. "Something terrible is taking hold of me. Surely I + am going to die." + </p> + <p> + We busy ourselves with the poor paralysed body. The face alone labours to + translate its sufferings. The hands make the very slightest movement on + the sheet. The bullets of the machine-gun have cut off all the rest from + the sources of life. + </p> + <p> + We do what we can, but I feel his heart beating more feebly; his lips make + immense efforts to beg for one drop, one drop only from the vast cup of + air. + </p> + <p> + Gradually he escapes from this hell. I divine that his hand makes a + movement as if to detain mine. + </p> + <p> + "Stay by me," he says; "I am afraid." + </p> + <p> + I stay by him. The sweat no longer stands on his brow. The horrible + distress passes off. The air flows again into the miserable breast. The + gentle eyes have not ceased to smile. + </p> + <p> + "You will save me after all," he says; "I have had too miserable a life to + die yet, Monsieur." + </p> + <p> + I press his hand to give him confidence, and I feel that his hard hand is + happy in mine. My fingers have groped in his flesh, his blood has flowed + over them, and this creates strong ties between two men. + </p> + <p> + Calm seems completely restored. I talk to him of his beautiful native + place. He was a baker in a village of Le Cantal. I passed through it once + as a traveller in peace time. We recall the scent of the juniper-bushes on + the green slopes in summer, and the mineral fountains with wonderful + flavours that gush forth among the mountains. + </p> + <p> + "Oh!" he exclaims, "I shall always see you!" + </p> + <p> + "You will see me, Mercier?" + </p> + <p> + He is a very simple fellow; he tries to explain, and merely adds: + </p> + <p> + "In my eyes.... I shall always see you in my eyes." + </p> + <p> + What else does he see? What other thing is suddenly reflected in his eyes? + </p> + <p> + "I think... oh, it is beginning again!" + </p> + <p> + It is true; the spasm is beginning again. It is terrible. In spite of our + efforts, it overcomes the victim, and this time we are helpless. + </p> + <p> + "I feel that I am going to die," he says. + </p> + <p> + The smiling eyes are still fixed imploringly upon me. + </p> + <p> + "But you will save me, you will save me!" + </p> + <p> + Death has already laid a disfiguring hand on Mercier. + </p> + <p> + "Stay by me." + </p> + <p> + Yes, I will stay by you, and hold your hand. Is there nothing more I can + do for you? + </p> + <p> + His nostrils quiver. It is hard to have been wretched for forty years, and + to have to give up the humble hope of smelling the pungent scent of the + juniper-bushes once more.... + </p> + <p> + His lips contract, and then relax gradually, so sadly. It is hard to have + suffered for forty years, and to be unable to quench one's last thirst + with the wonderful waters of our mountain springs.... + </p> + <p> + Now the dark sweat gathers again on the hollow brow. Oh, it is hard to die + after forty years of toil, without ever having had leisure to wipe the + sweat from a brow that has always been bent over one's work. + </p> + <p> + The sacrifice is immense, and we cannot choose our hour; we must make it + as soon as we hear the voice that demands it. + </p> + <p> + The man must lay down his tools and say: "Here I am." + </p> + <p> + Oh, how hard it is to leave this life of unceasing toil and sorrow! + </p> + <p> + The eyes still smile feebly. They smile to the last moment. + </p> + <p> + He speaks no more. He breathes no more. The heart throbs wildly, then + stops dead like a foundered horse. + </p> + <p> + Mercier is dead. The pupils of his eyes are solemnly distended upon a + glassy abyss. All is over. I have not saved him.... + </p> + <p> + Then from those dead eyes great tears ooze slowly and flow upon his + cheeks. I see his features contract as if to weep throughout eternity. + </p> + <p> + I keep the dead hand still clasped in mine for several long minutes. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VERDUN + </h2> + <p> + FEBRUARY-APRIL 1916 + </p> + <p> + We were going northward by forced marches, through a France that was like + a mournful garden planted with crosses. We were no longer in doubt as to + our appointed destination; every day since we had disembarked at B——our + orders had enjoined us to hasten our advance to the fighting units of the + Army Corps. This Army Corps was contracting, and drawing itself together + hurriedly, its head already in the thick of the fray, its tail still + winding along the roads, across the battle-field of the Marne. + </p> + <p> + February was closing in, damp and icy, with squalls of sleet, under a + sullen, hideous sky, lowering furiously down to the level of the ground. + Everywhere there were graves, uniformly decent, or rather according to + pattern, showing a shield of tri-colour or black and white, and figures. + Suddenly, we came upon immense flats, whence the crosses stretched out + their arms between the poplars like men struggling to save themselves from + being engulfed. Many ancient villages, humble, irremediable ruins. And yet + here and there, perched upon these, frail cabins of planks and tiles, + sending forth thin threads of smoke, and emitting a timid light, in an + attempt to begin life again as before, on the same spot as before. Now and + again we chanced upon a hamlet which the hurricane had passed by almost + completely, full to overflowing with the afflux of neighbouring + populations. + </p> + <p> + Beyond P——, our advance, though it continued to be rapid, + became very difficult, owing to the confluence of convoys and troops. The + main roads, reserved for the military masses which were under the + necessity of moving rapidly, arriving early, and striking suddenly, were + barred to us. From every point of the horizon disciplined multitudes + converged, with their arsenal of formidable implements, rolling along in + an atmosphere of benzine and hot oil. Through this ordered mass, our + convoys threaded their way tenaciously and advanced. We could see on the + hill sides, crawling like a clan of migrating ants, stretcher-bearers and + their dogs drawing handcarts for the wounded, then the columns of + orderlies, muddy and exhausted, then the ambulances, which every week of + war loads a little more heavily, dragged along by horses in a steam of + sweat. + </p> + <p> + From time to time, the whole train halted at some cross-road, and the + ambulances allowed more urgent things to pass in front of them—things + designed to kill, sturdy grey mortars borne along post haste in a metallic + rumble. + </p> + <p> + A halt, a draught of wine mingled with rain, a few minutes to choke over a + mouthful of stale bread, and we were off again, longing for the next halt, + for a dry shelter, for an hour of real sleep. + </p> + <p> + Soon after leaving C——we began to meet fugitives. This + complicated matters very much, and the spectacle began to show an odious + likeness to the scenes of the beginning of the war, the scenes of the + great retreat. + </p> + <p> + Keeping along the roadsides, the by-roads, the field-paths, they were + fleeing from the Verdun district, whence they had been evacuated by order. + They were urging on miserable old horses, drawing frail carts, their + wheels sunk in the ruts up to the nave, loaded with mattresses and + eiderdowns, with appliances for eating and sleeping, and sometimes too, + with cages in which birds were twittering. On they went, from village to + village, seeking an undiscoverable lodging, but not complaining, saying + merely: + </p> + <p> + "You are going to Verdun? We have just come from X——. We were + ordered to leave. It is very difficult to find a place to settle down in." + </p> + <p> + Women passed. Two of them were dragging a little baby-carriage in which an + infant lay asleep. One of them was quite young, the other old. They held + up their skirts out of the mud. They were wearing little town shoes, and + every minute they sank into the slime like ourselves, sometimes above + their ankles. + </p> + <p> + All day long we encountered similar processions. I do not remember seeing + one of these women weep; but they seemed terrified, and mortally tired. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, the sound of the guns became fuller and more regular. All the + roads we caught sight of in the country seemed to be bearing their load of + men and of machines. Here and there a horse which had succumbed at its + task lay rotting at the foot of a hillock. A subdued roar rose to the ear, + made up of trampling hoofs, of grinding wheels, of the buzz of motors, and + of a multitude talking and eating on the march. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly we debouched at the edge of a wood upon a height whence we could + see the whole battle-field. It was a vast expanse of plains and slopes, + studded with the grey woods of winter. Long trails of smoke from burning + buildings settled upon the landscape. And other trails, minute and + multi-coloured, rose from the ground wherever projectiles were raining. + Nothing more: wisps of smoke, brief flashes visible even in broad + daylight, and a string of captive balloons, motionless and observant + witnesses of all. + </p> + <p> + But we were already descending the incline and the various planes of the + landscape melted one after the other. As we were passing over a bridge, I + saw in a group of soldiers a friend I had not met since the beginning of + the war. We could not stop, so he walked along with me for a while, and we + spent these few minutes recalling the things of the past. Then as he left + me we embraced, though we had never done so in times of peace. + </p> + <p> + Night was falling. Knowing that we were now at our last long lap, we + encouraged the worn-out men. At R——I lost touch with my + formation. I halted on the roadside, calling aloud into the darkness. An + artillery train passed, covering me with mud to my eyes. Finally, I picked + up my friends, and we marched on through villages illumined by the camp + fires which were flickering under a driving rain, through a murky country + which the flash of cannon suddenly showed to be covered with a multitude + of men, of horses, and of martial objects. + </p> + <p> + It was February 27. Between ten and eleven at night we arrived at a + hospital installed in some wooden sheds, and feverishly busy. We were at B——, + a miserable village on which next day the Germans launched some thirty + monster-shells, yet failed to kill so much as a mouse. + </p> + <p> + The night was spent on straw, to the stentorian snores of fifty men + overcome by fatigue. Then reveille, and again, liquid mud over the ankles. + As the main road was forbidden to our ambulances there was an excited + discussion as a result of which we separated: the vehicles to go in search + of a by-way, and we, the pedestrians, to skirt the roads on which long + lines of motor-lorries, coming and going, passed each other in haste like + the carriages of an immense train. + </p> + <p> + We had known since midnight where we were to take up our quarters; the + suburb of G——was only an hour's march further on. In the + fields, right and left, were bivouacs of colonial troops with muddy + helmets; they had come back from the firing line, and seemed strangely + quiet. In front of us lay the town, half hidden, full of crackling sounds + and echoes. Beyond, the hills of the Meuse, on which we could distinguish + the houses of the villages, and the continuous rain of machine-gun + bullets. We skirted a meadow strewn with forsaken furniture, beds, chests, + a whole fortune which looked like the litter of a hospital. At last we + arrived at the first houses, and we were shown the place where we were + expected. + </p> + <p> + There were two brick buildings of several storeys, connected by a glazed + corridor; the rest of the enclosure was occupied by wooden sheds. Behind + lay orchards and gardens, the first houses of the suburb. In front, the + wall of a park, a meadow, a railway track, and La Route, the wonderful and + terrible road that enters the town at this very point. + </p> + <p> + Groups of lightly wounded men were hobbling towards the hospital; the + incessant rush of motors kept up the feverish circulation of a demolished + ant-hill. + </p> + <p> + As we approached the buildings, a doctor came out to meet us. + </p> + <p> + "Come, come. There's work enough for a month." + </p> + <p> + It was true. The effluvium and the moans of several hundreds of wounded + men greeted us. Ambulance No——, which we had come to relieve, + had been hard at it since the night before, without having made much + visible progress. Doctors and orderlies, their faces haggard from a night + of frantic toil, came and went, choosing among the heaps of wounded, and + tended two while twenty more poured in. + </p> + <p> + While waiting for our material, we went over the buildings. But a few days + before, contagious diseases had been treated here. A hasty disinfection + had left the wards reeking with formaline which rasped the throat without + disguising the sickly stench of the crowded sufferers. They were huddled + round the stoves in the rooms, lying upon the beds of the dormitories, or + crouching on the flags of the passages. + </p> + <p> + In each ward of the lower storey there were thirty or forty men of every + branch of the service, moaning and going out from time to time to crawl to + the latrines, or, mug in hand, to fetch something to drink. + </p> + <p> + As we explored further, the scene became more terrible; in the back rooms + and in the upper building a number of severely wounded men had been + placed, who began to howl as soon as we entered. Many of them had been + there for several days. The brutality of circumstances, the relief of + units, the enormous sum of work, all combined to create one of those + situations which dislocate and overwhelm the most willing service. + </p> + <p> + We opened a door, and the men who were lying within began to scream at the + top of their voices. Some, lying on their stretchers on the floor, seized + us by the legs as we passed, imploring us to attend to them. A few + bewildered orderlies hurried hither and thither, powerless to meet the + needs of this mass of suffering. Every moment I felt my coat seized, and + heard a voice saying: + </p> + <p> + "I have been here four days. Dress my wounds, for God's sake." + </p> + <p> + And when I answered that I would come back again immediately, the poor + fellow began to cry. + </p> + <p> + "They all say they will come back, but they never do." + </p> + <p> + Occasionally a man in delirium talked to us incoherently as we moved + along. Sometimes we went round a quiet bed to see the face of the + sufferer, and found only a corpse. + </p> + <p> + Each ward we inspected revealed the same distress, exhaled the same odour + of antiseptics and excrements, for the orderlies could not always get to + the patient in time, and many of the men relieved themselves apparently + unconcerned. + </p> + <p> + I remember a little deserted room in disorder, on the table a bowl of + coffee with bread floating in it; a woman's slippers on the floor, and in + a corner, toilet articles and some strands of fair hair.... I remember a + corner where a wounded man suffering from meningitis, called out + unceasingly: 27, 28, 29... 27, 28, 29... a prey to a strange obsession of + numbers. I see a kitchen where a soldier was plucking a white fowl... I + see an Algerian non-commissioned officer pacing the corridor.... + </p> + <p> + Towards noon, the head doctor arrived followed by my comrades, and our + vehicles. With him I made the round of the buildings again while they were + unpacking our stores. I had got hold of a syringe, while waiting for a + knife, and I set to work distributing morphia. The task before us seemed + immense, and every minute it increased. We began to divide it hastily, to + assign to each his part. The cries of the sufferers muffled the sound of a + formidable cannonade. An assistant at my side, whom I knew to be energetic + and resolute, muttered between his teeth: "No! no! Anything rather than + war!" + </p> + <p> + But we had first to introduce some order into our Inferno. + </p> + <p> + In a few hours this order appeared and reigned. We were exhausted by days + of marching and nights of broken sleep, but men put off their packs and + set to work with a silent courage that seemed to exalt even the least + generous natures. Our first spell lasted for thirty-six hours, during + which each one gave to the full measure of his powers, without a thought + of self. + </p> + <p> + Four operation-wards had been arranged. The wounded were brought in + unceasingly, and a grave and prudent mind pronounced upon the state of + each, upon his fate, his future.... Confronted by the overwhelming flood + of work to be done, the surgeon, before seizing the knife, had to meditate + deeply, and make a decision as to the sacrifice which would ensure life, + or give some hope of life. In a moment of effective thought, he had to + perceive and weigh a man's whole existence, then act, with method and + audacity. + </p> + <p> + As soon as one wounded man left the ward, another was brought in; while + the preparations for the operation were being made, we went to choose + among and classify the patients beforehand, for many needed nothing more; + they had passed beyond human aid, and awaited, numb and unconscious, the + crowning mercy of death. + </p> + <p> + The word "untransportable" once pronounced, directed all our work. The + wounded capable of waiting a few hours longer for attention, and of going + elsewhere for it were removed. But when the buzz of the motors was heard, + every one wanted to go, and men begging to be taken away entered upon + their death agony as they assured us they felt quite strong enough to + travel.... + </p> + <p> + Some told us their histories; the majority were silent. They wanted to go + elsewhere... and above all, to sleep, to drink. Natural wants dominated, + and made them forget the anguish of their wounds.... + </p> + <p> + I remember one poor fellow who was asked if he wanted anything. ... He had + a terrible wound in the chest, and was waiting to be examined. He replied + timidly that he wanted the urinal, and when the orderly hurried to him + bringing it, he was dead. + </p> + <p> + The pressure of urgent duty had made us quite unmindful of the battle + close by, and of the deafening cannonade. However, towards evening, the + buildings trembled under the fury of the detonations. A little armoured + train had taken up its position near us. The muzzle of a naval gun + protruded from it, and from moment to moment thrust out a broad tongue of + flame with a catastrophic roar. + </p> + <p> + The work was accelerated at the very height of the uproar. Rivers of water + had run along the corridors, washing down the mud, the blood and the + refuse of the operation-wards. The men who had been operated on were + carried to beds on which clean sheets had been spread. The open windows + let in the pure, keen air, and night fell on the hillsides of the Meuse, + where the tumult raged and lightnings flashed. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes a wounded man brought us the latest news of the battle. Between + his groans, he described the incredible bombardment, the obstinate + resistance, the counter-attacks at the height of the hurly-burly. + </p> + <p> + All these simple fellows ended their story with the same words, surprising + words at such a moment of suffering: + </p> + <p> + "They can't get through now...." + </p> + <p> + Then they began to moan again. + </p> + <p> + During the terrible weeks of the battle, it was from the lips of these + tortured men that we heard the most amazing words of hope and confidence, + uttered between two cries of anguish. + </p> + <p> + The first night passed under this stress and pressure. The morning found + us face to face with labours still vast, but classified, divided, and half + determined. + </p> + <p> + A superior officer came to visit us. He seemed anxious. + </p> + <p> + "They have spotted you," he said. "I hope you mayn't have to work upon + each other. You will certainly be bombarded at noon." + </p> + <p> + We had forgotten this prophecy by the time it was fulfilled. + </p> + <p> + About noon, the air was rent by a screeching whistle, and some dozen + shells fell within the hospital enclosure, piercing one of the buildings, + but sparing the men. This was the beginning of an irregular but almost + continuous bombardment, which was not specially directed against us, no + doubt, but which threatened us incessantly. + </p> + <p> + No cellars. Nothing but thin walls. The work went on. + </p> + <p> + On the third day a lull enabled us to complete our organisation. The enemy + was bombarding the town and the lines persistently. Our artillery replied, + shell for shell, in furious salvos; a sort of thunderous wall rose around + us which seemed to us like a rampart. ... The afflux of wounded had + diminished. We had just received men who had been fighting in the open + country, as in the first days of the war, but under a hail of projectiles + hitherto reserved for the destruction of fortresses. Our comrade D——arrived + from the battlefield on foot, livid, supporting his shattered elbow. He + stammered out a tragic story: his regiment had held its ground under a + surging tide of fire; thousands of huge shells had fallen in a narrow + ravine, and he had seen limbs hanging in the thicket, a savage dispersal + of human bodies. The men had held their ground, and then had fought.... + </p> + <p> + A quarter of an hour after his arrival D——, refreshed and + strengthened, was contemplating the big wound in his arm on the operating + table, and talking calmly of his ruined future.... + </p> + <p> + Towards the evening of this day, we were able to go out of the building, + and breathe the unpolluted air for a few minutes. + </p> + <p> + The noise reigned supreme, as silence reigns elsewhere. We were + impregnated, almost intoxicated with it.... + </p> + <p> + A dozen of those captive balloons which the soldiers call "sausages" + formed an aerial semi-circle and kept watch. + </p> + <p> + On the other side of the hills the German balloons also watched in the + purple mist to the East. + </p> + <p> + Night came, and the balloons remained faithfully at their posts. We were + in the centre of a circus of fire, woven by all the lightnings of the + cannonade. To the south-west, however, a black breach opened, and one + divined a free passage there towards the interior of the country and + towards silence. A few hundred feet from us, a cross-road continually + shelled by the enemy echoed to the shock of projectiles battering the + ground like hammers on an anvil. We often found at our feet fragments of + steel still hot, which in the gloom seemed slightly phosphorescent. + </p> + <p> + From this day forth, a skilful combination of our hours and our means + enabled us to take short spells of rest in turn. However, for a hundred + reasons sleep was impossible to me, and for several weeks I forgot what it + was to slumber. + </p> + <p> + I used to retire, then, from time to time to the room set apart for my + friend V——and myself, and lie down on a bed, overcome by a + fatigue that verged on stupefaction; but the perpetual clatter of sabots + and shoes in the passage kept the mind alert and the eyes open. The chorus + of the wounded rose in gusts; there were always in the adjoining wards + some dozen men wounded in the head, and suffering from meningitis, which + provoked a kind of monotonous howling; there were men wounded in the + abdomen, and crying out for the drink that was denied them; there were the + men wounded in the chest, and racked by a low cough choked with blood... + and all the rest who lay moaning, hoping for an impossible repose.... + </p> + <p> + Then I would get up and go back to work, haunted by the terrible fear that + excess of fatigue might have made my eye less keen, my hand less steady + than imperious duty required. + </p> + <p> + At night more especially, the bombardment was renewed, in hurricane gusts. + </p> + <p> + The air, rent by projectiles, mewed like a furious cat; the detonations + came closer, then retired methodically, like the footsteps of a giant on + guard around us, above us, upon us. + </p> + <p> + Every morning the orderlies took advantage of a moment of respite to run + and inspect the new craters, and unearth the fuses of shells.... I thought + of the delightful phrase of assistant-surgeon M——whom we had + attended for a wound on the head, and who said to me as I was taking him + back to bed, and we heard the explosions close by: + </p> + <p> + "Oh, the marmites (big shells) always fall short of one." + </p> + <p> + But to a great many of the wounded, the perpetual uproar was intolerable. + They implored us with tears to send them somewhere else; those we kept + were, as a fact, unable to bear removal; we had to soothe them and keep + them, in spite of everything. Some, overcome by fatigue, slept all day; + others showed extraordinary indifference, perhaps due to a touch of + delirium, like the man with a wound in the abdomen which I was dressing + one morning, and who when he saw me turn my head at the sound of an + explosion which ploughed up a neighbouring field, assured me quietly that + "those things weren't dangerous." + </p> + <p> + One night a policeman ran in with his face covered with blood. + </p> + <p> + He was waving a lantern which he used to regulate the wheeled traffic, and + he maintained that the enemy had spotted his lamp and had peppered him + with bullets. As a fact, he had only some slight scratches. He went off, + washed and bandaged, but only to come back to us the next day dead. A + large fragment of iron had penetrated his eye. + </p> + <p> + There was an entrance ward, where we sorted the cases. Ten times a day we + thought we had emptied this reservoir of misery; but we always found it + full again, paved with muddy stretchers on which men lay, panting and + waiting. + </p> + <p> + Opposite to this ante-room was a clearing ward; it seemed less dismal than + the other, though it was just as bare, and not any lighter; but the + wounded there were clean; they had been operated on, they wore white + bandages, they had been comforted with hot drinks and with all sorts of + hopes, for they had already escaped the first summons of Death. + </p> + <p> + Between these two rooms, a clerk lived in the draught, the victim of an + accumulation of indispensable and stupefying documents. + </p> + <p> + In the beginning, the same man sat for three days and three nights chained + to this ungrateful task until at last we saw him, his face convulsed, + almost mad after unremittingly labelling all this suffering with names and + figures. + </p> + <p> + The first days of March were chilly, with alternations of snow and + sunshine. When the air was pure, we heard it vibrate with the life of + aeroplanes and echo to their contests. The dry throb of machine-guns, the + incessant scream of shrapnel formed a kind of crackling dome over our + heads. The German aeroplanes overwhelmed the environs with bombs which + gave a prolonged whistle before tearing up the soil or gutting a house. + One fell a few paces from the ward where I was operating on a man who had + been wounded in the head. I remember the brief glance I cast outwards and + the screams and headlong flight of the men standing under the windows. + </p> + <p> + One morning I saw an airship which was cruising over the hills of the + Meuse suddenly begin to trail after it, comet-wise, a thick tail of black + smoke, and then rush to the earth, irradiated by a burst of flame, + brilliant even in the daylight. And I thought of the two men who were + experiencing this fall. + </p> + <p> + The military situation improved daily, but the battle was no less + strenuous. The guns used by the enemy for the destruction of men produced + horrible wounds, certainly more severe on the whole than those we had + tended during the first twenty months of a war that has been pitiless from + its inception. All doctors must have noted the hideous success achieved in + a very short time, in perfecting means of laceration. And we marvelled + bitterly that man could adventure his frail organism through the + deflagrations of a chemistry hardly disciplined as yet, which attains and + surpasses the brutality of the blind forces of Nature. We marvelled more + especially that flesh so delicate, the product and the producer of + harmony, could endure such shocks and such dilapidations without instant + disintegration. + </p> + <p> + Many men came to us with one or several limbs torn off completely, yet + they came still living.... Some had thirty or forty wounds, and even more. + We examined each body systematically, passing from one sad discovery to + another. They reminded us of those derelict vessels which let in the water + everywhere. And just because these wrecks seemed irredeemably condemned to + disaster, we clung to them in the obstinate hope of bringing them into + port and perhaps floating them again. + </p> + <p> + When the pressure was greatest, it was impossible to undress the men and + get them washed properly before bringing them into the operating-ward. The + problem was in these cases to isolate the work of the knife as far as + possible from the surrounding mud, dirt and vermin: I have seen soldiers + so covered with lice that the different parts of the dressings were + invaded by them, and even the wounds. The poor creatures apologised, as if + they were in some way to blame.... + </p> + <p> + At such moments patients succeeded each other so rapidly that we knew + nothing of them beyond their wounds: the man was carried away, still + plunged in sleep; we had made all the necessary decisions for him without + having heard his voice or considered his face. + </p> + <p> + We avoided overcrowding by at once evacuating all those on whom we had + operated as soon as they were no longer in danger of complications. We + loaded them up on the ambulances which followed one upon the other before + the door. Some of the patients came back a few minutes later, riddled with + fragments of shell; the driver had not succeeded in dodging the shells, + and he was often wounded himself. In like manner the stretcher-bearers as + they passed along the road were often hit themselves, and were brought in + on their own hand-carts. + </p> + <p> + One evening there was a "gas warning." Some gusts of wind arrived, bearing + along an acrid odour. All the wounded were given masks and spectacles as a + precaution. We hung them even on the heads of the beds where dying men + lay... and then we waited. Happily, the wave spent itself before it + reached us. + </p> + <p> + A wounded man was brought in that evening with several injuries caused by + a gas-shell. His eyes had quite disappeared under his swollen lids. His + clothing was so impregnated with the poison that we all began to cough and + weep, and a penetrating odour of garlic and citric acid hung about the + ward for some time. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +Many things we had perforce to leave to chance, and I thought, during +this alarm, of men just operated on, and plunged in the stupor of the +chloroform, whom we should have to allow to wake, and then mask them +immediately, or... + + Ah, well!... in the midst of all this unimaginable tragedy, +laughter was not quite quenched. This phenomenon is perhaps one of +the characteristics, one of the greatnesses of our race—and in a more +general way, no doubt, it is an imperative need of humanity at large. +</pre> + <p> + Certain of the wounded took a pride in cracking jokes, and they did so in + words to which circumstances lent a poignant picturesqueness. These jests + drew a laugh from us which was often closely akin to tears. + </p> + <p> + One morning, in the sorting room, I noticed a big, curly-haired fellow who + had lost a foot, and had all sorts of wounds and fractures in both legs. + All these had been hastily bound up, clothing and all, in the hollow of + the stretcher, which was stiff with blood. When I called the + stretcher-bearers and contemplated this picture, the big man raised + himself on his elbow and said: + </p> + <p> + "Please give me a cigarette." + </p> + <p> + Then he began to smoke, smiling cheerfully and telling absurd stories. We + took off one of his legs up to the thigh, and as soon as he recovered + consciousness, he asked for another cigarette, and set all the orderlies + laughing. + </p> + <p> + When, on leaving him, I asked this extraordinary man what his calling was, + he replied modestly: + </p> + <p> + "I am one of the employees of the Vichy Company." + </p> + <p> + The orderlies in particular, nearly all simple folks, had a desire to + laugh, even when they were worn out with fatigue, which made a pretext of + the slightest thing, and notably of danger. One of them, called Tailleur, + a buffoon with the airs of an executioner's assistant, would call out at + the first explosions of a hurricane of shells: + </p> + <p> + "Number your arms and legs! Look out for your nuts! The winkles are + tumbling about!" + </p> + <p> + All my little band would begin to laugh. And I had not the heart to check + them, for their faces were drawn with fatigue, and this moment of doleful + merriment at least prevented them from falling asleep as they stood. + </p> + <p> + When the explosions came very close, this same Tailleur could not help + exclaiming: + </p> + <p> + "I am not going to be killed by a brick! I am going outside." + </p> + <p> + I would look at him with a smile, and he would repeat: "As for me, I'm + off," carefully rolling a bandage the while, which he did with great + dexterity. + </p> + <p> + His mixture of terror and swagger was a perpetual entertainment to us. One + night, a hand-grenade fell out of the pocket of one of the wounded. In + defiance of orders, Tailleur, who knew nothing at all about the handling + of such things, turned it over and examined it for some time, with comic + curiosity and distrust. + </p> + <p> + One day a pig intended for our consumption was killed in the pig-sty by + fragments of shell. We ate it, and the finding by one of the orderlies of + some bits of metal in his portion of meat gave occasion for a great many + jests. + </p> + <p> + For a fortnight we were unable to go beyond the hospital enclosure. Our + longest expedition was to the piece of waste ground which had been + allotted to us for a burial ground, a domain the shells were always + threatening to plough up. This graveyard increased considerably. As it + takes a man eight hours to dig a grave for his brother man, one had to set + a numerous gang to work all day, to ensure a place for each corpse. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes we went into the wooden shed which served as our mortuary. Pere + Duval, the oldest of our orderlies, sewed there all day, making shrouds of + coarse linen for "his dead." + </p> + <p> + They were laid in the earth carefully, side by side, their feet together, + their hands crossed on their breasts, when indeed they still possessed + hands and feet.... Duval also looked after the human debris, and gave it + decent sepulture. + </p> + <p> + Thus our function was not only to tend the living, but also to honour the + dead. The care of what was magniloquently termed their "estate" fell to + our manager, S——. It was he who put into a little canvas bag + all the papers and small possessions found on the victims. He devoted days + and nights to a kind of funereal bureaucracy, inevitable even under the + fire of the enemy. His occupation, moreover, was not exempt from moral + difficulties. Thus he found in the pocket of one dead man a woman's card + which it was impossible to send on to his family, and in another case, a + collection of songs of such a nature that after due deliberation it was + decided to burn them. + </p> + <p> + Let us purify the memories of our martyrs! + </p> + <p> + We had several German wounded to attend. One of these, whose leg I had to + take off, overwhelmed me with thanks in his native tongue; he had lain for + six days on ground over which artillery played unceasingly, and + contemplated his return to life and the care bestowed on him with a kind + of stupefaction. + </p> + <p> + Another, who had a shattered arm, gave us a good deal of trouble by his + amazing uncleanliness. Before giving him the anaesthetic, the orderly took + from his mouth a set of false teeth, which he confessed he had not removed + for several months, and which exhaled an unimaginable stench. + </p> + <p> + I remember, too, a little fair-haired chap of rather chilly demeanour, who + suddenly said "Good-bye" to me with lips that quivered like those of a + child about to cry. + </p> + <p> + The interpreter from Headquarters, my friend C——, came to see + them all as soon as they had got over their stupor, and interrogated them + with placid patience, comparing all their statements in order to glean + some trustworthy indication. + </p> + <p> + Thus days and nights passed by in ceaseless toil, under a perpetual + menace, in the midst of an ever-growing fatigue which gave things the + substance and aspects they take on in a nightmare. + </p> + <p> + The very monotony of this existence was made up of a thousand dramatic + details, each of which would have been an event in normal life. I still + see, as through the mists of a dream, the orderly of a dying captain + sobbing at his bedside and covering his hands with kisses. I still hear + the little lad whose life blood had ebbed away, saying to me in imploring + tones: "Save me, Doctor! Save me for my mother!"... and I think a man must + have heard such words in such a place to understand them aright, I think + that every day this man must gain a stricter, a more precise, a more + pathetic idea of suffering and of death. + </p> + <p> + One Sunday evening, the bombardment was renewed with extraordinary + violence. We had just sent off General S——, who was smoking on + his stretcher, and chatting calmly and cheerfully; I was operating on an + infantryman who had deep wounds in his arms and thighs. Suddenly there was + a great commotion. A hurricane of shells fell upon the hospital. I heard a + crash which shook the ground and the walls violently, then hurried + footsteps and cries in the passage. + </p> + <p> + I looked at the man sleeping and breathing heavily, and I almost envied + his forgetfulness of all things, the dissolution of his being in a + darkness so akin to liberating death. My task completed, I went out to + view the damage. + </p> + <p> + A shell had fallen on an angle of the building, blowing in the windows of + three wards, scattering stones in all directions, and riddling walls and + ceilings with large fragments of metal. The wounded were moaning, shrouded + in acrid smoke. They were lying so close to the ground that they had been + struck only by plaster and splinters of glass; but the shock had been so + great that nearly all of them died within the following hour. + </p> + <p> + The next day it was decided that we should change our domicile, and we + made ready to carry off our wounded and remove our hospital to a point + rather more distant. It was a very clear day. In front of us, the main + road was covered with men, whom motor vehicles were depositing in groups + every minute. We were finishing our final operations and looking out + occasionally at these men gathered in the sun, on the slopes and in the + ditches. At about one o'clock in the afternoon the air was rent by the + shriek of high explosives and some shells fell in the midst of the groups. + We saw them disperse through the yellowish smoke, and go to lie down a + little farther off in the fields. Some did not even stir. + Stretcher-bearers came up at once, running across the meadow, and brought + us two dead men, and nine wounded, who were laid on the operating-table. + </p> + <p> + As we tended them during the following hour we looked anxiously at the + knots of men who remained in the open, and gradually increased, and we + asked whether they would not soon go. But there they stayed, and again we + heard the dull growl of the discharge, then the whistling overhead, and + the explosions of some dozen shells falling upon the men. Crowding to the + window, we watched the massacre, and waited to receive the victims. My + colleague M——drew my attention to a soldier who was running up + the grassy slope on the other side of the road, and whom the shells seemed + to be pursuing. + </p> + <p> + These were the last wounded we received in the suburb of G——. + Three hours afterwards, we took up the same life and the same labours + again, some way off, for many weeks more.... + </p> + <p> + Thus things went on, until the day when we, in our turn, were carried off + by the automobiles of the Grand' Route, and landed on the banks of a fair + river in a village where there were trees in blossom, and where the next + morning we were awakened by the sound of bells and the voices of women. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE SACRIFICE + </h2> + <p> + We had had all the windows opened. From their beds, the wounded could see, + through the dancing waves of heat, the heights of Berru and Nogent + l'Abbesse, the towers of the Cathedral, still crouching like a dying lion + in the middle of the plain of Reims, and the chalky lines of the trenches + intersecting the landscape. + </p> + <p> + A kind of torpor seemed to hang over the battle-field. Sometimes, a + perpendicular column of smoke rose up, in the motionless distance, and the + detonation reached us a little while afterwards, as if astray, and ashamed + of outraging the radiant silence. + </p> + <p> + It was one of the fine days of the summer of 1915, one of those days when + the supreme indifference of Nature makes one feel the burden of war more + cruelly, when the beauty of the sky seems to proclaim its remoteness from + the anguish of the human heart. + </p> + <p> + We had finished our morning round when an ambulance drew up at the + entrance. + </p> + <p> + "Doctor on duty!" + </p> + <p> + I went down the steps. The chauffeur explained: + </p> + <p> + "There are three slightly wounded men. I am going to take on further, and + then there are some severely wounded..." + </p> + <p> + He opened the back of his car. On one side three soldiers were seated, + dozing. On the other, there were stretchers, and I saw the feet of the men + lying upon them. Then, from the depths of the vehicle came a low, grave, + uncertain voice which said: + </p> + <p> + "I am one of the severely wounded, Monsieur." + </p> + <p> + He was a lad rather than a man. He had a little soft down on his chin, a + well-cut aquiline nose, dark eyes to which extreme weakness gave an + appearance of exaggerated size, and the grey pallor of those who have lost + much blood. + </p> + <p> + "Oh! how tired I am!" he said. + </p> + <p> + He held on to the stretcher with both hands as he was carried up the + steps. He raised his head a little, gave a glance full of astonishment, + distress, and lassitude at the green trees, the smiling hills, the glowing + horizon, and then he found himself inside the house. + </p> + <p> + Here begins the story of Gaston Leglise. It is a modest story and a very + sad story; but indeed, are there any stories now in the world that are not + sad? + </p> + <p> + I will tell it day by day, as we lived it, as it is graven in my memory, + and as it is graven in your memory and in your flesh, my friend Leglise. + </p> + <p> + Leglise only had a whiff of chloroform, and he fell at once into a sleep + closely akin to death. + </p> + <p> + "Let us make haste," said the head doctor. "We shall have the poor boy + dying on the table." + </p> + <p> + Then he shook his head, adding: + </p> + <p> + "Both knees! Both knees! What a future!" + </p> + <p> + The burden of experience is a sorrowful one. It is always sorrowful to + have sufficient memory to discern the future. + </p> + <p> + Small splinters from a grenade make very little wounds in a man's legs; + but great disorders may enter by way of those little wounds, and the knee + is such a complicated, delicate marvel! + </p> + <p> + Corporal Leglise is in bed now. He breathes with difficulty, and catches + his breath now and again like a person who has been sobbing. He looks + about him languidly, and hardly seems to have made up his mind to live. He + contemplates the bottle of serum, the tubes, the needles, all the + apparatus set in motion to revive his fluttering heart, and he seems bowed + down by grief. He wants something to drink, but he must not have anything + yet; he wants to sleep, but we have to deny sleep to those who need it + most; he wants to die perhaps, and we will not let him. + </p> + <p> + He sees again the listening post where he spent the night, in advance of + all his comrades. He sees again the narrow doorway bordered by sandbags + through which he came out at dawn to breathe the cold air and look at the + sky from the bottom of the communication-trench. All was quiet, and the + early summer morning was sweet even in the depths of the trench. But some + one was watching and listening for the faint sound of his footsteps. An + invisible hand hurled a bomb. He rushed back to the door; but his pack was + on his back, and he was caught in the aperture like a rat in a trap. The + air was rent by the detonation, and his legs were rent, like the pure air, + like the summer morning, like the lovely silence. + </p> + <p> + The days pass, and once more, the coursing blood begins to make the + vessels of the neck throb, to tinge the lips, and give depth and + brilliance to the eye. + </p> + <p> + Death, which had overrun the whole body like an invader, retired, yielding + ground by degrees; but it has halted now, and makes a stand at the legs; + these it will not relinquish; it demands something by way of spoil; it + will not be baulked of its prey entirely. + </p> + <p> + We fight for the portion Death has chosen. The wounded Corporal looks on + at our labours and our efforts, like a poor man who has placed his cause + in the hands of a knight, and who can only be a spectator of the combat, + can only pray and wait. + </p> + <p> + We shall have to give the monster a share; one of the legs must go. Now + another struggle begins with the man himself. Several times a day I go and + sit by his bed. All our attempts at conversation break down one by one. We + always end in the same silence and anxiety. To-day Leglise said to me: + </p> + <p> + "Oh! I know quite well what you're thinking about!" + </p> + <p> + As I made no answer, he intreated: + </p> + <p> + "Perhaps we could wait a little longer? Perhaps to-morrow I may be + better..." + </p> + <p> + Then suddenly, in great confusion: + </p> + <p> + "Forgive me. I do trust you all. I know what you do is necessary. But + perhaps it will not be too late in two or three days...." + </p> + <p> + Two or three days! We will see to-morrow. + </p> + <p> + The nights are terribly hot; I suffer for his sake. + </p> + <p> + I come to see him in the evening for the last time, and encourage him to + sleep. But his eyes are wide open in the night and I feel that they are + anxiously fixed on mine. + </p> + <p> + Fever makes his voice tremble. + </p> + <p> + "How can I sleep with all the things I am thinking about?" + </p> + <p> + Then he adds faintly: + </p> + <p> + "Must you? Must you?" + </p> + <p> + The darkness gives me courage, and I nod my head: "Yes!" + </p> + <p> + As I finish his dressings, I speak from the depths of my heart: + </p> + <p> + "Leglise, we will put you to sleep to-morrow. We will make an examination + without letting you suffer, and we will do what is necessary." + </p> + <p> + "I know quite well that you will take it off." + </p> + <p> + "We shall do what we must do." + </p> + <p> + I divine that the corners of his mouth are drawn down a little, and that + his lips are quivering. He thinks aloud: + </p> + <p> + "If only the other leg was all right!" + </p> + <p> + I have been thinking of that too, but I pretend not to have heard. + Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. + </p> + <p> + I spend part of the afternoon sewing pieces of waterproof stuff together. + He asks me: + </p> + <p> + "What are you doing?" + </p> + <p> + "I am making you a mask, to give you ether." + </p> + <p> + "Thank you; I can't bear the smell of chloroform." + </p> + <p> + I answer "Yes, that's why." The real reason is that we are not sure he + could bear the brutal chloroform, in his present state. + </p> + <p> + Leglise's leg was taken off at the thigh this morning. He was still + unconscious when we carried him into the dark room to examine his other + leg under the X-rays. + </p> + <p> + He was already beginning to moan and to open his eyes, and the + radiographer was not hurrying. I did all I could to hasten the business, + and to get him back into his bed. Thus he regained consciousness in bright + sunshine. + </p> + <p> + What would he, who once again was so close to the dark kingdom, have + thought if he had awakened in a gloom peopled by shadows, full of + whisperings, sparks and flashes of light? + </p> + <p> + As soon as he could speak, he said to me: + </p> + <p> + "You have cut off my leg?" + </p> + <p> + I made a sign. His eyes filled, and as his head was low, the great tears + trickled on to the pillow. + </p> + <p> + To-day he is calmer. The first dressings were very painful. He looked at + the raw, bloody, oozing stump, trembling, and said: + </p> + <p> + "It looks pretty horrible!" + </p> + <p> + We took so many precautions that now he is refreshed for a few hours. + </p> + <p> + "They say you are to have the Military Medal," the head doctor told him. + </p> + <p> + Leglise confided to me later, with some hesitation: + </p> + <p> + "I don't suppose they would really give me the medal!" + </p> + <p> + "And why not?" + </p> + <p> + "I was punished; one of my men had some buttons off his overcoat." + </p> + <p> + Oh, my friend, scrupulous lad, could I love my countrymen if they could + remember those wretched buttons for an instant? + </p> + <p> + "My men!" he said gravely. I look at his narrow chest, his thin face, his + boyish forehead with the serious furrow on it of one who accepts all + responsibilities, and I do not know how to show him my respect and + affection. + </p> + <p> + Leglise's fears were baseless. General G——arrived just now. I + met him on the terrace. His face pleased me. It was refined and + intelligent. + </p> + <p> + "I have come to see Corporal Leglise," he said. + </p> + <p> + I took him into the ward, full of wounded men, and he at once went towards + Leglise unhesitatingly, as if he knew him perfectly. + </p> + <p> + "How are you?" he asked, taking the young man's hand. + </p> + <p> + "Mon General, they've cut off my leg..." + </p> + <p> + "Yes, yes, I know, my poor fellow. And I have brought you the Military + Medal." + </p> + <p> + He pinned it on to Leglise's shirt, and kissed my friend on both cheeks, + simply and affectionately. + </p> + <p> + Then he talked to him again for a few minutes. + </p> + <p> + I was greatly pleased. Really, this General is one of the right sort. + </p> + <p> + The medal has been wrapped in a bit of muslin, so that the flies may not + soil it, and hung on the wall over the bed. It seems to be watching over + the wounded man, to be looking on at what is happening. Unfortunately, + what it sees is sad enough. The right leg, the only leg, is giving us + trouble now. The knee is diseased, it is in a very bad state, and all we + have done to save it seems to have been in vain. Then a sore has appeared + on the back, and then another sore. Every morning, we pass from one misery + to another, telling the beads of suffering in due order. + </p> + <p> + So a man does not die of pain, or Leglise would certainly be dead. I see + him still, opening his eyes desperately and checking the scream that rises + to his lips. Oh! I thought indeed that he was going to die. But his agony + demands full endurance; it does not even stupefy those it assails. + </p> + <p> + I call on every one for help. + </p> + <p> + "Genest, Barrassin, Prevot, come, all of you." + </p> + <p> + Yes, let ten of us do our best if necessary, to support Leglise, to hold + him, to soothe him. A minute of his endurance is equal to ten years of + such effort as ours. + </p> + <p> + Alas! were there a hundred of us he would still have to bear the heaviest + burden alone. + </p> + <p> + All humanity at this hour is bearing a very cruel burden. Every minute + aggravates its sufferings, and will no one, no one come to its aid? + </p> + <p> + We made an examination of the wounded man, together with our chief, who + muttered almost inaudibly between his teeth: + </p> + <p> + "He must be prepared for another sacrifice." + </p> + <p> + Yes, the sacrifice is not yet entirely consummated. + </p> + <p> + But Leglise understood. He no longer weeps. He has the weary and somewhat + bewildered look of the man who is rowing against the storm. I steal a look + at him, and he says at once in a clear, calm, resolute voice: + </p> + <p> + "I would much rather die." + </p> + <p> + I go into the garden. It is a brilliant morning, but I can see nothing, I + want to see nothing. I repeat as I walk to and fro: + </p> + <p> + "He would much rather die." + </p> + <p> + And I ask despairingly whether he is not right perhaps. + </p> + <p> + All the poplars rustle softly. With one voice, the voice of Summer itself, + they say: "No! No! He is not right!" + </p> + <p> + A little beetle crosses the path before me. I step on it unintentionally, + but it flies away in desperate haste. It too has answered in its own way: + "No, really, your friend is not right." + </p> + <p> + "Tell him he is wrong," sing the swarm of insects that buzz about the + lime-tree. + </p> + <p> + And even a loud roar from the guns that travels across the landscape seems + to say gruffly: "He is wrong! He is wrong!" + </p> + <p> + During the evening the chief came back to see Leglise, who said to him + with the same mournful gravity: + </p> + <p> + "No, I won't, Monsieur, I would rather die." + </p> + <p> + We go down into the garden, and the chief says a strange thing to me: + </p> + <p> + "Try to convince him. I begin at last to feel ashamed of demanding such a + sacrifice from him." + </p> + <p> + And I too... am I not ashamed? + </p> + <p> + I consult the warm, star-decked night; I am quite sure now that he is + wrong, but I don't know how to tell him so. What can I offer him in + exchange for the thing I am about to ask him? Where shall I find the words + that induce a man to live? Oh you, all things around me, tell me, repeat + to me that it is sweet to live, even with a body so grievously mutilated. + </p> + <p> + This morning I extracted a little projectile from one of his wounds. He + secretly concluded that this would perhaps make the great operation + unnecessary, and it hurt me to see his joy. I could not leave him this + satisfaction. + </p> + <p> + The struggle began again; this time it was desperate. For we have no time + to lose. Every hour of delay exhausts our man further. A few days more, + and there will be no choice open to him: only death, after a long + ordeal.... + </p> + <p> + He repeats: + </p> + <p> + "I am not afraid, but I would rather die." + </p> + <p> + Then I talk to him as if I were the advocate of Life. Who gave me this + right? Who gave me eloquence? The things I said were just the right + things, and they came so readily that now and then I was afraid of holding + out so sure a promise of a life I am not certain I can preserve, of + guaranteeing a future that is not in man's hands. + </p> + <p> + Gradually, I feel his resistance weakening. There is something in Leglise + which involuntarily sides with me and pleads with me. There are moments + when he does not know what to say, and formulates trivial objections, just + because there are others so much weightier. + </p> + <p> + "I live with my mother," he says. "I am twenty years old. What work is + there for a cripple? Ought I to live to suffer poverty and misery?" + </p> + <p> + "Leglise, all France owes you too much, she would blush not to pay her + debt." + </p> + <p> + And I promise again, in the name of our country, sure that she will never + fall short of what I undertake for her. The whole French nation is behind + me at this moment, silently ratifying my promise. + </p> + <p> + We are at the edge of the terrace; evening has come. I hold his burning + wrist in which the feeble pulse beats with exhausted fury. The night is so + beautiful, so beautiful! Rockets rise above the hills, and fall slowly + bathing the horizon in silvery rays. The lightning of the guns flashes + furtively, like a winking eye. In spite of all this, in spite of war, the + night is like waters dark and divine. Leglise breathes it in to his wasted + breast in long draughts, and says: + </p> + <p> + "Oh, I don't know, I don't know!... Wait another day, please, please...." + </p> + <p> + We waited three whole days, and then Leglise gave in. "Well, do what you + must. Do what you like." + </p> + <p> + On the morning of the operation, he asked to be carried down to the ward + by the steps into the park. I went with him, and I saw him looking at all + things round him, as if taking them to witness. + </p> + <p> + If only, only it is not too late! + </p> + <p> + Again he was laid on the table. Again we cut through flesh and bones. The + second leg was amputated at the thigh. + </p> + <p> + I took him in my arms to lay him on his bed, and he was so light, so + light.... + </p> + <p> + This time when he woke he asked no question. But I saw his hands groping + to feel where his body ended. + </p> + <p> + A few days have passed since the operation. We have done all it was + humanly possible to do, and Leglise comes back to life with a kind of + bewilderment. + </p> + <p> + "I thought I should have died," he said to me this morning, while I was + encouraging him to eat. + </p> + <p> + He added: + </p> + <p> + "When I went down to the operation-ward, I looked well at everything, and + I thought it was for the last time." + </p> + <p> + "Look, dear boy. Everything is just the same, just as beautiful as ever." + </p> + <p> + "Oh!" he says, going back to his memories, "I had made up my mind to die." + </p> + <p> + To make up one's mind to die is to take a certain resolution, in the hope + of becoming quieter, calmer, and less unhappy. The man who makes up his + mind to die severs a good many ties, and indeed actually dies to some + extent. + </p> + <p> + With secret anxiety, I say gently, as if I were asking a question: + </p> + <p> + "It is always good to eat, to drink, to breathe, to see the light. ..." + </p> + <p> + He does not answer. He is dreaming. I spoke too soon. I go away, still + anxious. + </p> + <p> + We have some bad moments yet, but the fever gradually abates. I have an + impression that Leglise bears his pain more resolutely, like one who has + given all he had to give, and fears nothing further. + </p> + <p> + When I have finished the dressing, I turned him over on his side, to ease + his sore back. He smiled for the first time this morning, saying: + </p> + <p> + "I have already gained something by getting rid of my legs. I can lie on + my side now." + </p> + <p> + But he cannot balance himself well; he is afraid of falling. + </p> + <p> + Think of him, and you will be afraid with him and for him. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes he goes to sleep in broad daylight and dozes for a few minutes. + He has shrunk to the size of a child. I lay a piece of gauze over his + face, as one does to a child, to keep the flies off. I bring him a little + bottle of Eau de Cologne and a fan, they help him to bear the final + assaults of the fever. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +He begins to smoke again. We smoke together on the terrace, where I have +had his bed brought. I show him the garden and say: "In a few days, I +will carry you down into the garden." + + He is anxious about his neighbours, asks their names, and +inquires about their wounds. For each one he has a compassionate word +that comes from the depths of his being. He says to me: +</pre> + <p> + "I hear that little Camus is dead. Poor Camus!" + </p> + <p> + His eyes fill with tears. I was almost glad to see them. He had not cried + for so long. He adds: + </p> + <p> + "Excuse me, I used to see Camus sometimes. It's so sad." + </p> + <p> + He becomes extraordinarily sensitive. He is touched by all he sees around + him, by the sufferings of others, by their individual misfortunes. He + vibrates like an elect soul, exalted by a great crisis. + </p> + <p> + When he speaks of his own case, it is always to make light of his + misfortune: + </p> + <p> + "Dumont got it in the belly. Ah, it's lucky for me that none of my organs + are touched; I can't complain." + </p> + <p> + I watch him with admiration, but I am waiting for something more, + something more.... + </p> + <p> + His chief crony is Legrand. + </p> + <p> + Legrand is a stonemason with a face like a young girl. He has lost a big + piece of his skull. He has also lost the use of language, and we teach him + words, as to a baby. He is beginning to get up now, and he hovers round + Leglise's bed to perform little services for him. He tries to master his + rebellious tongue, but failing in the attempt, he smiles, and expresses + himself with a limpid glance, full of intelligence. + </p> + <p> + Leglise pities him too: + </p> + <p> + "It must be wretched not to be able to speak." + </p> + <p> + To-day we laughed, yes, indeed, we laughed heartily, Leglise, the + orderlies and I. + </p> + <p> + We were talking of his future pension while the dressings were being + prepared, and someone said to him: + </p> + <p> + "You will live like a little man of means." + </p> + <p> + Leglise looked at his body and answered: + </p> + <p> + "Oh, yes, a little man, a very little man." + </p> + <p> + The dressing went off very well. To make our task easier, Leglise + suggested that he should hold on to the head of the bed with both hands + and throw himself back on his shoulders, holding his stumps up in the air. + It was a terrible, an unimaginable sight; but he began to laugh, and the + spectacle became comic. We all laughed. But the dressing was easy and was + quickly finished. + </p> + <p> + The stumps are healing healthily. In the afternoon, he sits up in bed. He + begins to read and to smoke, chatting to his companions. + </p> + <p> + I explain to him how he will be able to walk with artificial legs. He + jokes again: + </p> + <p> + "I was rather short before; but now I can be just the height I choose." + </p> + <p> + I bring him some cigarettes that had been sent me for him, some sweets and + dainties. He makes a sign that he wants to whisper to me, and says very + softly: + </p> + <p> + "I have far too many things. But Legrand is very badly off; his home is in + the invaded district, and he has nothing, they can't send him anything." + </p> + <p> + I understand. I come back presently with a packet in which there are + tobacco, some good cigarettes, and also a little note.... + </p> + <p> + "Here is something for Legrand. You must give it to him. I'm off." + </p> + <p> + In the afternoon I find Leglise troubled and perplexed. + </p> + <p> + "I can't give all this to Legrand myself, he would be offended." + </p> + <p> + So then we have to devise a discreet method of presentation. + </p> + <p> + It takes some minutes. He invents romantic possibilities. He becomes + flushed, animated, interested. + </p> + <p> + "Think," I say, "find a way. Give it to him yourself, from some one or + other." + </p> + <p> + But Leglise is too much afraid of wounding Legrand's susceptibilities. He + ruminates on the matter till evening. + </p> + <p> + The little parcel is at the head of Legrand's bed. Leglise calls my + attention to it with his chin, and whispers: + </p> + <p> + "I found some one to give it to him. He doesn't know who sent it. He has + made all sorts of guesses; it is very amusing!" Oh, Leglise, can it be + that there is still something amusing, and that it is to be kind? Isn't + this alone enough to make it worth while to live? + </p> + <p> + So now we have a great secret between us. All the morning, as I come and + go in the ward, he looks at me meaningly, and smiles to himself. Legrand + gravely offers me a cigarette; Leglise finds it hard not to burst out + laughing. But he keeps his counsel. + </p> + <p> + The orderlies have put him on a neighbouring bed while they make his. He + stays there very quietly, his bandaged stumps in view, and sings a little + song, like a child's cradle-song. Then, all of a sudden, he begins to cry, + sobbing aloud. + </p> + <p> + I put my arm round him and ask anxiously: "Why? What is the matter?" + </p> + <p> + Then he answers in a broken voice: "I am crying with joy and + thankfulness." + </p> + <p> + Oh! I did not expect so much. But I am very happy, much comforted. I kiss + him, he kisses me, and I think I cried a little too. + </p> + <p> + I have wrapped him in a flannel dressing-gown, and I carry him in my arms. + I go down the steps to the park very carefully, like a mother carrying her + new-born babe for the first time, and I call out: "An arm-chair! An + arm-chair." + </p> + <p> + He clings to my neck as I walk, and says in some confusion: + </p> + <p> + "I shall tire you." + </p> + <p> + No indeed! I am too well pleased. I would not let any one take my place. + The arm-chair has been set under the trees, near a grove. I deposit + Leglise among the cushions. They bring him a kepi. He breathes the scent + of green things, of the newly mown lawns, of the warm gravel. He looks at + the facade of the mansion, and says: + </p> + <p> + "I had not even seen the place where I very nearly died." + </p> + <p> + All the wounded who are walking about come and visit him; they almost seem + to be paying him homage. He talks to them with a cordial authority. Is he + not the chief among them, in virtue of his sufferings and his sacrifice? + </p> + <p> + Some one in the ward was talking this morning of love and marriage, and a + home. + </p> + <p> + I glanced at Leglise now and then; he seemed to be dreaming and he + murmured: + </p> + <p> + "Oh, for me, now..." + </p> + <p> + Then I told him something I knew: I know young girls who have sworn to + marry only a mutilated man. Well, we must believe in the vows of these + young girls. France is a country richer in warmth of heart than in any + other virtue. It is a blessed duty to give happiness to those who have + sacrificed so much. And a thousand hearts, the generous hearts of women, + applaud me at this moment. + </p> + <p> + Leglise listens, shaking his head. He does not venture to say "No." + </p> + <p> + Leglise has not only the Military Medal, but also the War Cross. The + notice has just come. He reads it with blushes. + </p> + <p> + "I shall never dare to show this," he says; "it is a good deal + exaggerated." + </p> + <p> + He hands me the paper, which states, in substance, that Corporal Leglise + behaved with great gallantry under a hail of bombs, and that his left leg + has been amputated. + </p> + <p> + "I didn't behave with great gallantry," he says; "I was at my post, that's + all. As to the bombs, I only got one." + </p> + <p> + I reject this point of view summarily. + </p> + <p> + "Wasn't it a gallant act to go to that advanced post, so near the enemy, + all alone, at the head of all the Frenchmen? Weren't they all behind you, + to the very end of the country, right away to the Pyrenees? Did they not + all rely on your coolness, your keen sight, your vigilance? You were only + hit by one bomb, but I think you might have had several, and still be with + us. And besides, the notice, far from being exaggerated, is really + insufficient; it says you have lost a leg, whereas you have lost two! It + seems to me that this fully compensates for anything excessive with regard + to the bombs." + </p> + <p> + "That's true!" agrees Leglise, laughing. "But I don't want to be made out + a hero." + </p> + <p> + "My good lad, people won't ask what you think before they appreciate and + honour you. It will be quite enough to look at your body." + </p> + <p> + Then we had to part, for the war goes on, and every day there are fresh + wounded. + </p> + <p> + Leglise left us nearly cured. He left with some comrades, and he was not + the least lively of the group. + </p> + <p> + "I was the most severely wounded man in the train," he wrote to me, not + without a certain pride. + </p> + <p> + Since then, Leglise has written to me often. His letters breathe a + contented calm. I receive them among the vicissitudes of the campaign; on + the highways, in wards where other wounded men are moaning, in fields + scoured by the gallop of the cannonade. + </p> + <p> + And always something beside me murmurs, mutely: + </p> + <p> + "You see, you see, he was wrong when he said he would rather die." + </p> + <p> + I am convinced of it, and this is why I have told your story. You will + forgive me, won't you, Leglise, my friend? + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE THIRD SYMPHONY + </h2> + <p> + Every morning the stretcher-bearers brought Vize-Feldwebel Spat down to + the dressing ward, and his appearance always introduced a certain chill in + the atmosphere. + </p> + <p> + There are some German wounded whom kind treatment, suffering, or some more + obscure agency move to composition with the enemy, and who receive what we + do for them with a certain amount of gratitude. Spat was not one of these. + For weeks we had made strenuous efforts to snatch him from death, and then + to alleviate his sufferings, without eliciting the slightest sign of + satisfaction from him, or receiving the least word of thanks. + </p> + <p> + He could speak a little French, which he utilised strictly for his + material wants, to say, for instance, "A little more cotton-wool under the + foot, Monsieur," or, "Have I any fever to-day?" + </p> + <p> + Apart from this, he always showed us the same icy face, the same pale, + hard eyes, enframed by colourless lashes. We gathered, from certain + indications, that the man was intelligent and well educated; but he was + obviously under the domination of a lively hatred, and a strict sense of + his own dignity. + </p> + <p> + He bore pain bravely, and like one who makes it a point of honour to + repress the most excusable reactions of the martyred flesh. I do not + remember ever hearing him cry out, though this would have seemed to me + natural enough, and would by no means have lowered Monsieur Spat in my + opinion. All I ever heard from him was a stifled moan, the dull panting of + the woodman as he swings his axe. + </p> + <p> + One day we were obliged to give him an anaesthetic in order to make + incisions in the wounds in his leg; he turned very red and said, in a tone + that was almost imploring: "You won't cut it off, gentlemen, will you?" + But no sooner did he regain consciousness than he at once resumed his + attitude of stiff hostility. + </p> + <p> + After a time, I ceased to believe mat his features could ever express + anything but this repressed animosity. I was undeceived by an unforeseen + incident. + </p> + <p> + The habit of whistling between one's teeth is a token, with me as with + many other persons, of a certain absorption. It is perhaps rather a vulgar + habit, but I often feel impelled to whistle, especially when I have a + serious piece of work in hand. + </p> + <p> + One morning accordingly, I was finishing Vize-Feldwebel Spat's dressing, + and whistling something at random. I was looking at his leg, and was + paying no attention to his face, when I suddenly became curiously aware + that the look he had fixed upon me had changed in quality, and I raised my + eyes. + </p> + <p> + Certainly, something very extraordinary had taken place: the German's face + glowed with a kind of warmth and contentment, and was so smiling and + radiant that I hardly recognised it. I could scarcely believe that he had + been able to improvise this face, which was sensitive and trustful, out of + the features he generally showed us. + </p> + <p> + "Tell me, Monsieur," he murmured, "it's the Third Symphony, isn't it, that + you are... what do you call it?—yes... whistling." + </p> + <p> + First, I stopped whistling. Then I answered: "Yes, I believe it is the + Third Symphony"; then I remained silent and confused. + </p> + <p> + A slender bridge had just been flung across the abyss. + </p> + <p> + The thing lasted for a few seconds, and I was still dreaming of it when + once more I felt an icy, irrevocable shadow falling upon me—the + hostile glance of Herr Spat. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + GRACE + </h2> + <p> + It is a common saying that all men are equal in the presence of suffering, + but I know very well that this is not true. + </p> + <p> + Auger! Auger! humble basket-maker of La Charente, who are you, you who + seem able to suffer without being unhappy? Why are you touched with grace, + whereas Gregoire is not? Why are you the prince of a world in which + Gregoire is merely a pariah? + </p> + <p> + Kind ladies who pass through the wards where the wounded lie, and give + them cigarettes and sweet-meats, come with me. + </p> + <p> + We will go through the large ward on the first floor, where the windows + are caressed by the boughs of chestnut-trees. I will not point out Auger, + you will give him the lion's share of the cigarettes and sweets of your + own accord; but if I don't point out Gregoire, you will leave without, + noticing him, and he will get no sweets, and will have nothing to smoke. + </p> + <p> + It is not because of this that I call Gregoire a pariah. It is because of + a much sadder and more intimate thing... Gregoire lacks endurance, he is + not what we call a good patient. + </p> + <p> + In a general way those who tend the wounded call the men who do not give + them much trouble "good patients." Judged by this standard, every one in + the hospital will tell you that Gregoire is not a good patient. + </p> + <p> + All day long, he lies on his left side, because of his wound, and stares + at the wall. I said to him a day or two after he came: + </p> + <p> + "I am going to move you and put you over in the other corner; there you + will be able to see your comrades." + </p> + <p> + He answered, in his dull, surly voice: + </p> + <p> + "It's not worth while. I'm all right here." + </p> + <p> + "But you can see nothing but the wall." + </p> + <p> + "That's quite enough." + </p> + <p> + Scarcely have the stretcher-bearers touched his bed, when Gregoire begins + to cry out in a doleful, irritable tone: + </p> + <p> + "Ah! don't shake me like that! Ah, you mustn't touch me." + </p> + <p> + The stretcher-bearers I give him are very gentle fellows, and he always + has the same: Paffin, a fat shoe-maker with a stammer, and Monsieur Bouin, + a professor of mathematics, with a grey beard and very precise movements. + </p> + <p> + They take hold of Gregoire most carefully to lay him on the stretcher. The + wounded man criticises all their movements peevishly: + </p> + <p> + "Ah! don't turn me over like that. And you must hold my leg better than + that!" + </p> + <p> + The sweat breaks out on Baffin's face. Monsieur Bouin's eye-glasses fall + off. At last they bring the patient along. + </p> + <p> + As soon as he comes into the dressing ward, Gregoire is pale and + perspiring. His harsh tawny beard quivers, hair by hair. I divine all + this, and say a few words of encouragement to him from afar. + </p> + <p> + "I shan't be long with you this morning, Gregoire. You won't have time to + say 'oof'!" + </p> + <p> + He preserves a sulky silence, full of reservations. He looks like a + condemned criminal awaiting execution. He is so pre-occupied that he does + not even answer when the sarcastic Sergeant says as he passes him: + </p> + <p> + "Ah! here's our grouser." + </p> + <p> + At last he is laid on the table which the wounded men call the + "billiard-table." + </p> + <p> + Then, things become very trying. I feel at once that whatever I do, + Gregoire will suffer. I uncover the wound in his thigh, and he screams. I + wash the wound carefully, and he screams. I probe the wound, from which I + remove small particles of bone, very gently, and he utters unimaginable + yells. I see his tongue trembling in his open mouth. His hands tremble in + the hands that hold them, I have an impression that every fibre of his + body trembles, that the raw flesh of the wound trembles and retracts. In + spite of my determination, this misery affects me, and I wonder whether I + too shall begin to tremble sympathetically. I say: + </p> + <p> + "Try to be patient, my poor Gregoire." + </p> + <p> + He replies in a voice hoarse with pain and terror: "I can't help it." + </p> + <p> + I add, just to say something: "Courage, a little courage." + </p> + <p> + He does not even answer, and I feel that to exhort him to show courage, is + to recommend an impossible thing, as if I were to advise him to have black + eyes instead of his pale blue ones. + </p> + <p> + The dressing is completed in an atmosphere of general discomfort. Nothing + could persuade me that Gregoire does not cordially detest me at this + moment. While they are carrying him away, I ask myself bitterly why + Gregoire is so deficient in grace, why he cannot suffer decently? + </p> + <p> + The Sergeant says, as he sponges the table: "He's working against one all + the time." Well, the Sergeant is wrong. Gregoire is not deliberately + hostile. Sometimes I divine, when he knits his brows, that he is making an + effort to resist suffering, to meet it with a stouter and more cheerful + heart. But he does not know how to set about it. + </p> + <p> + If you were asked to lift a railway-engine, you would perhaps make an + effort; but you would do so without confidence and without success. So you + must not say hard things of Gregoire. + </p> + <p> + Gregoire is unable to bear suffering, just as one is unable to talk an + unknown language. And, then, it is easier to learn Chinese than to learn + the art of suffering. + </p> + <p> + When I say that he is unable to bear suffering, I really mean that he has + to suffer a great deal more than others.... I know the human body, and I + cannot be deceived as to certain signs. + </p> + <p> + Gregoire begins very badly. He reminds one of those children who have such + a terror of dogs that they are bound to be bitten. Gregoire trembles at + once. The dogs of pain throw themselves upon this defenceless man and pull + him down. + </p> + <p> + A great load of misery is heavy for a man to bear alone, but it is + supportable when he is helped. Unfortunately Gregoire has no friends. He + does nothing to obtain them, it almost seems as if he did not want any. + </p> + <p> + He is not coarse, noisy and foul-mouthed, like the rascal Groult who + amuses the whole ward. He is only dull and reserved. + </p> + <p> + He does not often say "Thank you" when he is offered something, and many + touchy people take offence at this. + </p> + <p> + When I sit down by his bed, he gives no sign of any pleasure at my visit. + I ask him: + </p> + <p> + "What was your business in civil life?" + </p> + <p> + He does not answer immediately. At last he says: "Odd jobs; I carried and + loaded here and there." + </p> + <p> + "Are you married?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes." + </p> + <p> + "Have you any children?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes." + </p> + <p> + "How many?" + </p> + <p> + "Three." + </p> + <p> + The conversation languishes. I get up and say: "Good-bye till to-morrow, + Gregoire." + </p> + <p> + "Ah! you will hurt me again to-morrow." + </p> + <p> + I reassure him, or at least I try to reassure him. Then, that I may not go + away leaving a bad impression, I ask: + </p> + <p> + "How did you get wounded?" + </p> + <p> + "Well, down there in the plain, with the others...." + </p> + <p> + That is all. I go away. Gregoire's eyes follow me for a moment, and I + cannot even say whether he is pleased or annoyed by my visit. + </p> + <p> + Good-bye, poor Gregoire. I cross the ward and go to sit down by Auger. + </p> + <p> + Auger is busy writing up his "book." + </p> + <p> + It is a big ledger some one has given him, in which he notes the important + events of his life. + </p> + <p> + Auger writes a round schoolboy hand. In fact, he can just write + sufficiently well for his needs, I might almost say for his pleasure. + </p> + <p> + "Would you care to look at my book?" he says, and he hands it to me with + the air of a man who has no secrets. + </p> + <p> + Auger receives many letters, and he copies them out carefully, especially + when they are fine letters, full of generous sentiments. His lieutenant, + for instance, wrote him a remarkable letter. + </p> + <p> + He also copies into his book the letters he writes to his wife and his + little girl. Then he notes the incidents of the day: "Wound dressed at 10 + o'clock. The pus is diminishing. After dinner Madame la Princesse Moreau + paid us a visit, and distributed caps all round; I got a fine green one. + The little chap who had such a bad wound in the belly died at 2 + o'clock...." + </p> + <p> + Auger closes his book and puts it back under his bolster. + </p> + <p> + He has a face that it does one good to look at. His complexion is warm and + fresh; his hair stiff and rather curly. He has a youthful moustache, a + well-shaped chin, with a lively dimple in the middle, and eyes which seem + to be looking out on a smiling landscape, gay with sunshine and running + waters. + </p> + <p> + "I am getting on splendidly," he says with great satisfaction. "Would you + like to see Mariette?" + </p> + <p> + He lifts up the sheet, and I see the apparatus in which we have placed the + stump of his leg. It makes a kind of big white doll, which he takes in + both hands with a laugh, and to which he has given the playful name of + "Mariette." + </p> + <p> + Auger was a sapper in the Engineers. A shell broke his thigh and tore off + his foot. But as the foot was still hanging by a strip of flesh, Auger + took out his pocket-knife, and got rid of it. Then he said to his + terror-stricken comrades: "Well, boys, that's all right. It might have + been worse. Now carry me somewhere out of this." + </p> + <p> + "Did you suffer terribly?" I asked him. + </p> + <p> + "Well, Monsieur, not as much as you might think. Honestly, it did not hurt + so very, very much. Afterwards, indeed, the pain was pretty bad." + </p> + <p> + I understand why every one is fond of Auger. It is because he is + reassuring. Seeing him and listening to him one opines that suffering is + not such a horrible thing after all. Those who live far from the + battle-field, and visit hospitals to get a whiff of the war, look at Auger + and go away well satisfied with everything: current events, him, and + themselves. They are persuaded that the country is well defended, that our + soldiers are brave, and that wounds and mutilations, though they may be + serious things, are not unbearable. + </p> + <p> + Yet pain has come to Auger as to the rest. But there is a way of taking + it. + </p> + <p> + He suffers in an enlightened, intelligent, almost methodical fashion. He + does not confuse issues, and complain indiscriminately. Even when in the + hands of others, he remains the man who had the courage to cut off his own + foot, and finish the work of the shrapnel. He is too modest and respectful + to give advice to the surgeon, but he offers him valuable information. + </p> + <p> + He says: + </p> + <p> + "Just there you are against the bone, it hurts me very much. Ah! there you + can scrape, I don't feel it much. Take care! You're pressing rather too + hard. All right: you can go on, I see what it's for...." + </p> + <p> + And this is how we work together. + </p> + <p> + "What are you doing? Ah, you're washing it. I like that. It does me good. + Good blood! Rub a little more just there. You don't know how it itches. + Oh! if you're going to put the tube in, you must tell me, that I may hold + on tight to the table." + </p> + <p> + So the work gets on famously. Auger will make a rapid and excellent + recovery. With him, one need never hesitate to do what is necessary. I + wanted to give him an anaesthetic before scraping the bone of his leg. He + said: + </p> + <p> + "I don't suppose it will be a very terrible business. If you don't mind, + don't send me to sleep, but just do what is necessary. I will see to the + rest." + </p> + <p> + True, he could not help making a few grimaces. Then the Sergeant said to + him: + </p> + <p> + "Would you like to learn the song of the grunting pigs?" + </p> + <p> + "How does your song go?" + </p> + <p> + The Sergeant begins in a high, shrill voice: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Quand en passant dedans la plai-ai-ne + On entend les cochons... + Cela prouve d'une facon certai-ai-ne + Qu'ils non pas l'trooo du... bouche. +</pre> + <p> + Auger begins to laugh; everybody laughs. And meanwhile we are bending over + the wounded leg and our work gets on apace. + </p> + <p> + "Now, repeat," says the Sergeant. + </p> + <p> + He goes over it again, verse by verse, and Auger accompanies him. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Quand en passant dedans la plai-ai-ne... +</pre> + <p> + Auger stops now and then to make a slight grimace. Sometimes, too, his + voice breaks. He apologises simply: + </p> + <p> + "I could never sing in tune." + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless, the song is learnt, more or less, and when the General comes + to visit the hospital, Auger says to him: + </p> + <p> + "Mon General, I can sing you a fine song." + </p> + <p> + And he would, the rascal, if the head doctor did not look reprovingly at + him. + </p> + <p> + It is very dismal, after this, to attend to Gregoire, and to hear him + groaning: + </p> + <p> + "Ah! don't pull like that. You're dragging out my heart." + </p> + <p> + I point out that if he won't let us attend to him, he will become much + worse. Then he begins to cry. + </p> + <p> + "What do I care, since I shall die anyhow?" + </p> + <p> + He has depressed the orderlies, the stretcher-bearers, everybody. He does + not discourage me; but he gives me a great deal of trouble. + </p> + <p> + All you gentlemen who meet together to discuss the causes of the war, the + end of the war, the using-up of effectives and the future bases of + society, excuse me if I do not give you my opinion on these grave + questions. I am really too much taken up with the wound of our unhappy + Gregoire. + </p> + <p> + It is not satisfactory, this wound, and when I look at it, I cannot think + of anything else; the screams of the wounded man would prevent me from + considering the conditions of the decisive battle and the results of the + rearrangement of the map of Europe with sufficient detachment. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +Listen: Gregoire tells me he is going to die. I think and believe that +he is wrong. But he certainly will die if I do not take it upon myself +to make him suffer. He will die, because every one is forsaking him. And +he has long ago forsaken himself. + + "My dear chap," remarked Auger to a very prim orderly, "it is no +doubt unpleasant to have only one shoe to put on, but it gives one a +chance of saving. And now, moreover, I only run half as much risk of +scratching my wife with my toe-nails in bed as you do. ..." +</pre> + <p> + "Quite so," added the Sergeant; "with Mariette he will caress his good + lady, so to speak." + </p> + <p> + Auger and the Sergeant crack jokes like two old cronies. The embarrassed + orderly, failing to find a retort, goes away laughing constrainedly. + </p> + <p> + I sat down by Auger, and we were left alone. + </p> + <p> + "I am a basket-maker," he said gravely. "I shall be able to take up my + trade again more or less. But think of workers on the land, like Groult, + who has lost a hand, and Lerondeau, with his useless leg!... That's really + terrible!" + </p> + <p> + Auger rolls his r's in a way that gives piquancy and vigour to his + conversation. He talks of others with a natural magnanimity which comes + from the heart, like the expression of his eyes, and rings true, like the + sound of his voice. And then again, he really need not envy any one. Have + I not said it! He is a prince. + </p> + <p> + "I have had some very grand visitors," he says. "Look, another lady came a + little while ago, and left me this big box of sweets. Do take one, + Monsieur, it would be a pleasure to me. And please, will you hand them + round to the others, from me?" + </p> + <p> + He adds in a lower tone: + </p> + <p> + "Look under my bed. I put everything I am given there. Really, there's too + much. I'm ashamed. There are some chaps here who never get anything, and + they were brave fellows who did their duty just as well as I did." + </p> + <p> + It is true, there are many brave soldiers in the ward, but only one + Military Medal was given among them, and it came to Auger. Its arrival was + the occasion of a regular little fete; his comrades all took part in it + cordially, for strange to say, no one is jealous of Auger. A miracle + indeed! Did you ever hear of any other prince of whom no one was jealous? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +"Are you going?" said Auger. "Please just say a few words to Groult. He +is a bit of a grouser, but he likes a talk." + + Auger has given me a lesson. I will go and smoke a cigarette with +Groult, and above all, I will go and see Gregoire. +</pre> + <p> + Groult, indeed, is not altogether neglected. He is an original, a perverse + fellow. He is pointed out as a curious animal. He gets his share of + presents and attention. + </p> + <p> + But no one knows anything about Gregoire; he lies staring at the wall, and + growing thinner every day, and Death seems the only person who is + interested in him. + </p> + <p> + You shall not die, Gregoire! I vow to keep hold of you, to suffer with + you, and to endure your ill-temper humbly. You, who seem to be bearing the + misery of an entire world, shall not be miserable all alone. + </p> + <p> + Kind ladies who come to see our wounded and give them picture-books, + tri-coloured caps and sweetmeats, do not forget Gregoire, who is wretched. + Above all, give him your sweetest smiles. + </p> + <p> + You go away well pleased with yourselves because you have been generous to + Auger. But there is no merit in being kind to Auger. With a single story, + a single clasp of his hand, he gives you much more than he received from + you. He gives you confidence; he restores your peace of mind. + </p> + <p> + Go and see Gregoire who has nothing but his suffering to give, and who + very nearly gave his life. + </p> + <p> + If you go away without a smile for Gregoire, you may fear that you have + not fulfilled your task. And don't expect him to return your smile, for + where would your liberality be in that case? + </p> + <p> + It is easy to pity Auger, who needs no pity. It is difficult to pity + Gregoire, and yet he is so pitiable. + </p> + <p> + Do not forget; Auger is touched with grace; but Gregoire will be damned if + you do not hold out your hand to him. + </p> + <p> + God Himself, who has withheld grace from the damned, must feel pity for + them. + </p> + <p> + It is a very artless desire for equality which makes us say that all men + are equal in the presence of suffering. No! no! they are not. And as we + know nothing of Death but that which precedes and determines it, men are + not even equal in the presence of Death. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + NIGHTS IN ARTOIS + </h2> + <p> + I + </p> + <p> + One more glance into the dark ward, in which something begins to reign + which is not sleep, but merely a kind of nocturnal stupor. + </p> + <p> + The billiard-table has been pushed into a corner; it is loaded with an + incoherent mass of linen, bottles, and articles of furniture. A smell of + soup and excrements circulates between the stretchers, and seems to insult + the slender onyx vases that surmount the cabinet. + </p> + <p> + And now, quickly! quickly! Let us escape on tiptoe into the open air. + </p> + <p> + The night is clear and cold, without a breath of wind: a vast block of + transparent ice between the snow and the stars. Will it suffice to cleanse + throat and lungs, nauseated by the close effluvium of suppurating wounds? + </p> + <p> + The snow clings and balls under our sabots. How good it would be to have a + game.... But we are overwhelmed by a fatigue that has become a kind of + exasperation. We will go to the end of the lawn. + </p> + <p> + Here is the great trench in which the refuse of the dressing-ward, all the + residuum of infection, steams and rots. Further on we come to the musical + pines, which Dalcour the miner visits every night, lantern in hand, to + catch sparrows, Dalcour, the formidable Zouave, whom no one can persuade + not to carry about his stiff leg and the gaping wound in his bandaged + skull in the rain. + </p> + <p> + Let us go as far as the wall of the graveyard, which time has caused to + swell like a protuberance on the side of the park, and which is so + providentially close at hand. + </p> + <p> + The old Chateau looms, a stately mass, through the shadows. To-night, + lamps are gleaming softly in every window. It looks like a silent, + illuminated ship, the prow of which is cutting through an ice-bank. + Nothing emerges from it but this quiet light. Nothing reveals the nature + of its terrible freight. + </p> + <p> + We know that in every room, in every storey, on the level of every floor, + young mutilated bodies are ranged side by side. A hundred hearts send the + over-heated blood in swift pulsations towards the suffering limbs. Through + all these bodies the projectile in its furious course made its way, + crushing delicate mechanisms, rending the precious organs which make us + take pleasure in walking, breathing, drinking.... + </p> + <p> + Up there, this innocent joy of order no longer exists; and in order to + recapture it, a hundred bodies are performing labours so slow and hard + that they call forth tears and sighs from the strongest. + </p> + <p> + But how the murmurs of this centre of suffering are muffled by the walls! + How silently and darkly it broods in space! + </p> + <p> + Like a dressing on a large inflamed wound, the Chateau covers its contents + closely, and one sees nothing but these lamps, just such lamps as might + illuminate a studious solitude, or a conversation between intimate friends + at evening, or a love lost in self-contemplation. + </p> + <p> + We are now walking through thickets of spindle-wood, resplendent under the + snow, and the indifference of these living things to the monstrous misery + round them makes the impotent soul that is strangling me seem odious and + even ridiculous to me. In spite of all protestations of sympathy, the + mortal must always suffer alone in his flesh, and this indeed is why war + is possible.... + </p> + <p> + Philippe here thinks perhaps as I do; but he and I have these thoughts + thrust on us in the same pressing fashion. Men who are sleeping twenty + paces from this spot would be wakened by a cry; yet they are undisturbed + by this formidable presence, inarticulate as a mollusc in the depths of + the sea. + </p> + <p> + In despair, I stamp on the soft snow with my sabot. The winter grass it + covers subsists obstinately, and has no solidarity with anything else on + earth. Let the pain of man wear itself out; the grass will not wither. + Sleep, good folks of the whole world. Those who suffer here will not + disturb your rest. + </p> + <p> + And suddenly, beyond the woods a rocket rises and bursts against the sky, + brilliant as a meteor. It means something most certainly, and it warns + some one; but its coarse ingenuity does not deceive me. No barbarous + signal such as this could give me back confidence in my soul to-night. + </p> + <p> + II + </p> + <p> + The little room adjoining the closet where I sleep has been set apart for + those whose cries or effluvia make them intolerable to the rest. As it is + small and encumbered, it will only admit a single stretcher, and men are + brought in there to die in turn. + </p> + <p> + But lately, when the Chateau was reigning gracefully in the midst of + verdure, the centre of the great star of alleys piercing its groves of + limes and beeches, its owners occasionally entertained a brilliant + society; and if they had under their roof some gay and lovely milk-white + maiden, they gave her this little room at the summit of the right wing, + whence the sun may be seen rising above the forests, to dream, and sleep, + and adorn herself in. + </p> + <p> + To-day, the facade of the Chateau seems to be listening, strained and + anxious, to the cannonade; and the little room has become a death-chamber. + </p> + <p> + Madelan was the first we put there. He was raving in such a brutal and + disturbing manner, in spite of the immobility of his long, paralysed + limbs, that his companions implored us to remove him. I think Madelan + neither understood nor noticed this isolation, for he was already given + over to a deeper solitude; but his incessant vociferation, after he was + deprived of listeners, took on a strange and terrible character. + </p> + <p> + For four days and four nights, he never ceased talking vehemently; and + listening to him, one began to think that all the life of the big body + that was already dead, had fled in frenzy to his throat. For four nights I + heard him shouting incoherent, elusive things, which seemed to be replies + to some mysterious interlocutor. + </p> + <p> + At dawn, and from hour to hour throughout the day, I went to see him where + he sprawled on a paillasse on the floor, like some red-haired stricken + beast, with out-stretched limbs, convulsed by spasms which displaced the + dirty blanket that covered him. + </p> + <p> + He lost flesh with such incredible rapidity that he seemed to be + evaporating through the gaping wound in the nape of his neck. + </p> + <p> + Then I would speak to him, saying things that were kindly meant but + futile, because conversation is impossible between a man who is being + whirled along by the waters of a torrent, and one who is seated among the + rushes on the bank. Madelan did not listen to me, and he continued his + strange colloquy with the other. He did not want us or any one else; he + had ceased to eat or to drink, and relieved himself as he lay, asking + neither help nor tendance. + </p> + <p> + One day, the wind blew the door of the room to, and there was no key to + open it. A long ladder was put up to the window, and a pane of glass was + broken to effect an entrance. Directly this was done, Madelan was heard, + continuing his dream aloud. + </p> + <p> + He died, and was at once replaced by the man with his skull battered in, + of whom we knew nothing, because when he came to us he could neither see + nor speak, and had nothing by way of history but a red and white ticket, + as large as the palm of a child's hand. + </p> + <p> + This man spent only one night in the room, filling the silence with + painful eructations, and thumping on the partition which separated him + from my bed. + </p> + <p> + Listening alertly, with the cold air from the open window blowing on my + face, I heard in turn the crowing of the cocks in the village, the + irregular breathing of Philippe, sleeping the sleep of exhaustion not far + from me, and the blows and the death-rattle of the man who took so long to + die. He became silent, however, in the morning, when the wind began to + drop, and the first detonation of the day boomed through the vault-like + quiet of the darkness. + </p> + <p> + Then we had as our neighbour the hospital orderly, Sergeant Gidel, who was + nearing his end, and whose cruel hiccough we had been unable to alleviate + for a week past. This man knew his business, he knew the meaning of probe, + of fever, of hardened abdomen. He knew too that he had a bullet in the + spinal cord. He never asked us for anything, and as we dared not tell him + lies, we were overcome by a kind of shame in his presence. He stayed + barely two days in the room, looking with dim eyes at the engravings on + the walls, and the Empire bureau on which vases were piled. + </p> + <p> + But what need is there to tell of all those whom this unhappy room + swallowed up and ejected? + </p> + <p> + III + </p> + <p> + We have no lights this evening.... We must learn to do without them.... I + grope my way along the passages, where the wind is muttering, to the great + staircase. Here there is a fitful lamp which makes one prefer the + darkness. I see the steps, which are white and smeared with mud, pictures + and tapestries, a sumptuous scheme of decoration flooded at the bottom by + filth and desolation. As I approach the room where the wounded are lying, + I hear the calm sound of their conversation. I go in quietly. They cease + talking; then they begin to chat again, for now they know me. + </p> + <p> + At first one can only distinguish long forms ranged upon the ground. The + stretchers seem to be holding forth with human voices. One of these is + narrating: + </p> + <p> + "We were all three sitting side by side... though I had told the adjutant + that corner was not a good place.... They had just brought us a ration of + soup with a little bit of meat that was all covered with white frost. Then + bullets began to arrive by the dozen, and we avoided them as well as we + could, and the earth flew about, and we were laughing, because we had an + idea that among all those bullets there was not one that would find its + billet. And then they stopped firing, and we came back to sit on the + ledge. There were Chagniol and Duc and I, and I had them both to the right + of me. We began to talk about Giromagny, and about Danjoutin, because + that's the district we all came from, and this went on for about half an + hour. And then, all of a sudden, a bullet came, just a single one, but + this time it was a good one. It went through Chagniol's head, then through + Duc's, and as I was a little taller than they, it only passed through my + neck...." + </p> + <p> + "And then?" + </p> + <p> + "Then it went off to the devil! Chagniol fell forward on his face. Duc got + up, and ran along on all fours as far as the bend in the trench, and there + he began to scratch out the earth like a rabbit, and then he died. The + blood was pouring down me right and left, and I thought it was time for me + to go. I set off running, holding a finger to each side of my neck, + because of the blood. I was thinking: just a single bullet! It's too much! + It was really a mighty good one! And then I saw the adjutant. So I said to + him: 'I warned you, mon adjutant, that that corner was not a good place!' + But the blood rushed up into my mouth, and I began to run again." + </p> + <p> + There was a silence, and I heard a voice murmur with conviction: + </p> + <p> + "YOU were jolly lucky, weren't you?" + </p> + <p> + Mulet, too, tells his story: + </p> + <p> + "They had taken our fire... 'That's not your fire,' I said to him. 'Not + our fire?' he said. Then the other came up and he said: 'Hold your jaw + about the fire...' 'It's not yours,' I said. Then he said: 'You don't know + who you're talking to.' And he turned his cap, which had been inside + out... 'Ah! I beg your pardon,' I said, 'but I could not tell...' And so + they kept our fire...." + </p> + <p> + Maville remarks calmly: "Yes, things like that will happen sometimes." + </p> + <p> + Silence again. The tempest shakes the windows with a furious hand. The + room is faintly illuminated by a candle which has St. Vitus' dance. + Rousselot, our little orderly, knits away industriously in the circle of + light. I smoke a pipe at once acrid and consoling, like this minute itself + in the midst of the infernal adventure. + </p> + <p> + Before going away, I think of Croquelet, the silent, whose long silhouette + I see at the end of the room. "He sleeps all the time," says Mulet, "he + sleeps all day." I approach the stretcher, I bend over it, and I see two + large open eyes, which look at me gravely and steadily in the gloom. And + this look is so sad, so poignant, that I am filled with impotent distress. + </p> + <p> + "You sleep too much, my poor Croquelet." + </p> + <p> + He answers me with his rugged accent, but in a feeble voice: + </p> + <p> + "Don't listen to him; it's not true. You know quite well that I can't + sleep, and that you won't give me a draught to let me get a real nap. This + afternoon, I read a little.... But it wasn't very interesting.... If I + could have another book...." + </p> + <p> + "Show me your book, Croquelet." + </p> + <p> + He thrusts out his chin towards a little tract. I strike a match, and I + read on the grey cover: "Of the Quality of Prayers addressed to God." + </p> + <p> + "All right, Croquelet, I'll try to get you a book with pictures in it. How + do you feel this evening?" + </p> + <p> + "Ah! bad! very bad! They're thawing now...." + </p> + <p> + He has had frost-bite in his feet, and is beginning to suffer so much from + them that he forgets the wound in his side, which is mortal, but less + active. + </p> + <p> + IV + </p> + <p> + I have come to take refuge among my wounded to smoke in peace, and + meditate in the shadow. Here, the moral atmosphere is pure. These men are + so wretched, so utterly humiliated, so absorbed in their relentless + sufferings that they seem to have relinquished the burden of the passions + in order to concentrate their powers on the one endeavour: to live. + </p> + <p> + In spite of their solidarity they are for the time isolated by their + individual sufferings. Later on, they will communicate; but this is the + moment when each one contemplates his own anguish, and fights his own + battle, with cries of pain.... + </p> + <p> + They are all my friends. I will stay among them, associating myself with + all my soul in their ordeal. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps here I shall find peace. Perhaps all ignoble discord will call a + truce on the threshold of this empire. + </p> + <p> + But a short distance from us the battle-field has thundered unceasingly + for days. Like a noisy, complicated mechanism which turns out the products + of its internal activity, the stupid machine of war throws out, from + minute to minute, bleeding men. We pick them up, and here they are, + swathed in bandages. They have been crushed in the twinkling of an eye; + and now we shall have to ask months and years to repair or palliate the + damage. + </p> + <p> + How silent they are this evening! And how it makes one's heart ache to + look at them! Here is Bourreau, with the brutal name and the gentle + nature, who never utters a complaint, and whom a single bullet has + deprived of sight for ever. Here is Bride, whom we fear to touch, so + covered is he with bandages, but who looks at us with touching, liquid + eyes, his mind already wandering. Here is Lerouet, who will not see next + morning dawn over the pine-trees, and who has a gangrened wound near his + heart. And the others, all of whom I know by their individual misfortunes. + </p> + <p> + How difficult it is to realise what they were, all these men who a year + ago, were walking in streets, tilling the land, or writing in an office. + Their present is too poignant. Here they lie on the ground, like some fair + work of art defaced. Behold them! The creature par excellence has received + a great outrage, an outrage it has wrought upon itself. + </p> + <p> + We are ignorant of their past. But have they a future? I consider these + innocent victims in the tragic majesty of the hour, and I feel ashamed of + living and breathing freely among them. + </p> + <p> + Poor, poor brothers! What could one do for you which would not be + insufficient, unworthy, mediocre? We can at least give up everything and + devote ourselves heart and soul to our holy and exacting work. + </p> + <p> + But no! round the beds on which your solitary drama is enacted, men are + still taking part in a sinister comedy. Every kind of folly, the most + ignoble and also the most imbecile passions, pursue their enterprises and + their satisfactions over your heads. + </p> + <p> + Neither the four corpses we buried this morning, nor your daily agonies + will disarm these appetites, suspend these calculations, and destroy these + ambitions the development and fruition of which even your martyrdom, may + be made to serve. + </p> + <p> + I will spend the whole evening among my wounded, and we will talk + together, gently, of their misery; it will please them, and they will make + me forget the horrible atmosphere of discussion that reigns here. + </p> + <p> + Alas! during the outburst of the great catastrophe, seeing the volume of + blood and fire, listening to the uproar, smelling the stench of the vast + gangrene, we thought that all passions would be laid aside, like + cumbersome weapons, and that we should give ourselves up with clean hearts + and empty hands to battle against the fiery nightmare. He who fights and + defends himself needs a pure heart: so does he who wanders among charnel + houses, gives drink to parched lips, washes fevered faces and bathes + wounds. We thought there would be a great forgetfulness of self and of + former hopes, and of the whole world. O Union of pure hearts to meet the + ordeal! + </p> + <p> + But no! The first explosion was tremendous, yet hardly had its echoes died + away when the rag-pickers were already at work among the ruins, in quest + of cutlet-bones and waste paper. + </p> + <p> + And yet, think of the sacred anguish of those first hours! + </p> + <p> + Well, so be it! For my part, I will stay here, between these stretchers + with their burdens of anguish. + </p> + <p> + At this hour one is inclined to distrust everything, man and the universe, + and the future of Right. But we cannot have any doubts as to the suffering + of man. It is the one certain thing at this moment. + </p> + <p> + So I will stay and drink in this sinister testimony. And each time that + Beal, who has a gaping wound in the stomach, holds out his hands to me + with a little smile, I will get up and hold his hands in mine, for he is + feverish, and he knows that my hands are always icy. + </p> + <p> + V + </p> + <p> + Bride is dead. We had been working all day, and in the evening we had to + find time to go and bury Bride. + </p> + <p> + It is not a very long ceremony. The burial-ground is near. About a dozen + of us follow the lantern, slipping in the mud, and stumbling over the + graves. Here we are at the wall, and here is the long ditch, always open, + which every day is prolonged a little to the right, and filled in a little + to the left. Here is the line of white crosses, and the flickering shadows + on the wall caused by the lantern. + </p> + <p> + The men arrange the planks, slip the ropes, and lower the body, disputing + in undertones, for it is not so easy as one might think to be a + grave-digger. One must have the knack of it. And the night is very dark + and the mud very sticky. + </p> + <p> + At last the body is at the bottom of the trench, and the muddy ropes are + withdrawn. The little consumptive priest who stands at the graveside + murmurs the prayer for the dead. The rain beats in our faces. The familiar + demon of Artois, the wind, leaps among the ancient trees. The little + priest murmurs the terrible words: Dies irae, dies illa.... + </p> + <p> + And this present day is surely the day of wrath... I too utter my prayer: + "In the name of the unhappy world, Bride, I remit all thy sins, I absolve + thee from all thy faults! Let this day, at least, be a day of rest." + </p> + <p> + The little priest stands bare-headed in the blast. An orderly who is an + ecclesiastic holds the end of an apron over his head. A man raises the + lantern to the level of his eye. And the rain-drops gleam and sparkle + furtively. + </p> + <p> + Bride is dead.... + </p> + <p> + Now we meet again in the little room where friendship reigns. + </p> + <p> + Pierre and Jacques, gallant fellows, I shall not forget your beautiful, + painful smile at the moment which brings discouragement to the experienced + man. I shall not forget. + </p> + <p> + The beef and rice, which one needs to be very hungry to swallow, is + distributed. And a gentle cheerfulness blossoms in the circle of + lamplight, a cheerfulness which tries to catch something of the gaiety of + the past. Man has such a deep-seated need of joy that he improvises it + everywhere, even in the heart of misery. + </p> + <p> + And suddenly, through the steam of the soup, I see Bride's look + distinctly. + </p> + <p> + It was no ordinary look. The extremity of suffering, the approach of + death, perhaps, and also the hidden riches of his soul, gave it + extraordinary light, sweetness, and gentleness. When one came to his + bedside, and bent over him, the look was there, a well-spring of + refreshment. + </p> + <p> + But Bride is dead: we saw his eyes transformed into dull, meaningless + membranes. + </p> + <p> + Where is that well-spring? Can it be quenched? + </p> + <p> + Bride is dead. Involuntarily, I repeat aloud: "Bride is dead." + </p> + <p> + Have I roused a responsive echo in these sympathetic souls? A religious + silence falls upon them. The oldest of all problems comes and takes its + place at the table like a familiar guest. It breathes mysteriously into + every ear: "Where is Bride? Where is Bride's look?" + </p> + <p> + VI + </p> + <p> + A lantern advances, swinging among the pines. Who is coming to meet us? + </p> + <p> + Philippe recognises the figure of Monsieur Julien. Here is the man, + indeed, with his porter's livery, and his base air as of an insolent + slave. He waves a stable-lantern which throws grotesque shadows upwards on + his face; and he is obviously furious at having been forced to render a + service. + </p> + <p> + He brandishes the lantern angrily, and thrusts out his chin to show us the + advancing figures: two men are carrying a stretcher on which lies a big + body wrapped in a coarse winding sheet. The two men are weary, and set the + stretcher down carefully in the mud. + </p> + <p> + "Is it Fumat?" + </p> + <p> + "Yes. He has just died, very peacefully." + </p> + <p> + "Where are you going?" + </p> + <p> + "There is no place anywhere for a corpse. So we are taking him to the + chapel in the burial-ground. But he is heavy." + </p> + <p> + "We will give you a hand." + </p> + <p> + Philippe and I take hold of the stretcher. The men follow us in silence. + The body is heavy, very heavy. We drag our sabots out of the clay + laboriously. And we walk slowly, breathing hard. + </p> + <p> + How heavy he is!... He was called Fumat... He was a giant. He came from + the mountains of the Centre, leaving a red-tiled village on a hill-side, + among juniper-bushes and volcanic boulders. He left his native place with + its violet peaks and strong aromatic scents and came to the war in Artois. + He was past the age when men can march to the attack, but he guarded the + trenches and cooked. He received his death-wound while he was cooking. The + giant of Auvergne was peppered with small missiles. He had no wound at all + proportionate to his huge body. Nothing but splinters of metal. Once + again, David has slain Goliath. + </p> + <p> + He was two days dying. He was asked: "Is there anything you would like?" + And he answered with white lips: "Nothing, thank you." When we were + anxious and asked him "How do you feel?" he was always quite satisfied. "I + am getting on very well." He died with a discretion, a modesty, a + self-forgetfulness which redeemed the egotism of the universe. + </p> + <p> + How heavy he is! He was wounded as he was blowing up the fire for the + soup. He did not die fighting. He uttered no historic word. He fell at his + post as a cook.... He was not a hero. + </p> + <p> + You are not a hero, Fumat. You are only a martyr. And we are going to lay + you in the earth of France, which has engulfed a noble and innumerable + army of martyrs. + </p> + <p> + The shadow of the trees sweeps like a huge sickle across space. An acrid + smell of cold decay rises on the night. The wind wails its threnody for + Fumat. + </p> + <p> + "Open the door, Monsieur Julien." + </p> + <p> + The lout pushes the door, grumbling to himself. We lay the body on the + pavement of the chapel. + </p> + <p> + Renaud covers the corpse carefully with a faded flag. And suddenly, as if + to celebrate the moment, the brutal roar of guns comes to us from the + depths of the woods, breaks violently into the chapel, seizes and rattles + the trembling window-panes. A hundred times over, a whole nation of cannon + yells in honour of Fumat. And each time other Fumats fall in the mud + yonder, in their appointed places. + </p> + <p> + VII + </p> + <p> + They ought not to have cut off all the light in this manner, and it would + not have been done, perhaps, if... + </p> + <p> + There is a kind of mania for organisation which is the sworn enemy of + order; in its efforts to discover the best place for everything, it ends + by diverting everything from its right function and locality, and making + everything as inopportune as itself. It was a mistake to cut off all the + lights this evening, on some pretext or the other. The rooms of the old + mansion are not packed with bales of cotton, but with men who have anxious + minds and tortured bodies. + </p> + <p> + A mournful darkness suddenly reigned; and outside, the incessant storm + that rages in this country swept along like a river in spate. + </p> + <p> + Little Rochet was dreaming in the liquid light of the lamp, with hands + crossed on his breast, and the delicate profile of an exhausted saint. + </p> + <p> + He was dreaming of vague and exquisite things, for cruel fever has moments + of generosity between two nightmares. He was dreaming so sweetly that he + forgot the abominable stench of his body, and that a smile touched the two + deep wrinkles at the corners of his mouth, set there by a week of agony. + </p> + <p> + But all the lamps have been put out, and the noise of the hurricane has + become more insistent, and the wounded have ceased talking, for darkness + discourages conversation. + </p> + <p> + There are some places where the men with whom the shells have dealt + mercifully and whose wounds are only scratches congregate. These have only + the honour of wounds, and what may be called their delights.... But here, + we have only the worst cases; and here they have to await the supreme + decision of death. + </p> + <p> + Little Rochet awoke to a reality full of darkness and despair. He heard + nothing but laboured breathing round him, and rising above it all, the + violent breath of the storm. He was suddenly conscious of his lacerated + stomach, of his lost leg, and he realised that the fetid smell in the air + was the smell of his flesh. And he thought of the loving letter he had + received in the morning from his four big sisters with glossy hair, he + thought of all his lost, ravished happiness.... + </p> + <p> + Renaud hurries up, groping his way among the dark ambushes of the + corridor. + </p> + <p> + "Come, come quickly. Little Rochet has thrown himself out of bed." + </p> + <p> + Holding up a candle, I take in the melancholy scene. We have to get Rochet + into bed again, readjust his bandages, wipe up the fetid liquid spilt on + the floor. + </p> + <p> + Rochet's lips are compressed. I stoop to his ear and ask softly: + </p> + <p> + "Why did you do this?" + </p> + <p> + His face remains calm, and he answers gently, looking me full in the eyes: + "I want to die." + </p> + <p> + I leave the room, disarmed, my head bowed, and go in search of Monet, who + is a priest and an excellent orderly. He is smoking a pipe in a corner. He + has just had news that his young brother has been killed in action, and he + had snatched a few minutes of solitude. + </p> + <p> + "Monet," I say, "I think Rochet is a believer. Well, go to him. He may + want you." + </p> + <p> + Monet puts away his pipe, and goes off noiselessly. + </p> + <p> + As to me, I go and wander about outside. On the poplar-lined road, in + company with the furious rain and the darkness, I shall perhaps be able to + master the flood of bitterness that sweeps over me. + </p> + <p> + At the end of an hour, my anxiety brings me back to Rochet's bedside. The + candle is burning away with a steady flame. Monet is reading in a little + book with a clasp. The profile of the wounded man has still the pitiful + austerity of a tortured saint. + </p> + <p> + "Is he quieter now?" + </p> + <p> + Monet lifts his fine dark eyes to my face, and drops his book. + </p> + <p> + "Yes. He is dead." + </p> + <p> + VIII + </p> + <p> + Why has Hell been painted as a place of hopeless torture and eternal + lamentation? + </p> + <p> + I believe that even in the lowest depths of Hell, the damned sing, jest, + and play cards. I am led to imagine this after seeing these men rowing in + their galleys, chained to them by fever and wounds. + </p> + <p> + Blaireau, who has only lost a hand, preludes in an undertone: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Si tu veux fair' mon bonheur.... +</pre> + <p> + This timid breath kindles the dormant flame. Houdebine, who has a + fractured knee, but who now expects to be fairly comfortable till the + morning, at once responds and continues: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Marguerite! Marguerite! +</pre> + <p> + The two sing in unison, with delighted smiles: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Si tu veux fair' mon bonheur + Marguerite! Marguerite! +</pre> + <p> + Maville joins in at the second verse, and even Legras, whose two legs are + broken, and the Chasseur Alpin, who has a hole in his skull. + </p> + <p> + Panchat, the man who had a bullet through his neck, beats time with his + finger, because he is forbidden to speak. + </p> + <p> + All this goes on in low tones; but faces light up, and flush, as if a + bottle of brandy had been passed round. + </p> + <p> + Then Houdebine turns to Panchat and says: "Will you have a game of dummy + manilla, Panchat?" + </p> + <p> + Dummy manilla is a game for two; and they have to be content with games + for two, because no one in this ward can get up, and communication is only + easy for those in adjacent beds. + </p> + <p> + Panchat makes a sign of consent. Why should he not play dummy manilla, + which is a silent game. A chair is put between the two beds, and he + shuffles the cards. + </p> + <p> + The cards are so worn at the corners that they have almost become ovals. + The court cards smile through a fog of dirt; and to deal, one has to wet + one's thumb copiously, because a thick, tenacious grease makes the cards + stick together in an evil-smelling mass. + </p> + <p> + But a good deal of amusement is still to be got out of these precious bits + of old paste-board. + </p> + <p> + Panchat supports himself on his elbow, Houdebine has to keep on his back, + because of his knee. He holds his cards against his chin, and throws them + down energetically on the chair with his right hand. + </p> + <p> + The chair is rather far off, the cards are dirty, and sometimes Houdebine + asks his silent adversary: "What's that?" + </p> + <p> + Panchat takes the card and holds it out at arm's length. + </p> + <p> + Houdebine laughs gaily. + </p> + <p> + He plays his cards one after the other, and dummy's hand also: + </p> + <p> + "Trump! Trump! Trump! And ace of hearts!" + </p> + <p> + Even those who cannot see anything laugh too. + </p> + <p> + Panchat is vexed, but he too laughs noiselessly. Then he takes out the + lost sou from under his straw pillow. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, Mulet is telling a story. It is always the same story, but it + is always interesting. + </p> + <p> + An almost imperceptible voice, perhaps Legras', hums slowly: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Si tu veux fair' mon bonheur. +</pre> + <p> + Who talks of happiness here? + </p> + <p> + I recognise the accents of obstinate, generous life. I recognise thine + accents, artless flesh! Only thou couldst dare to speak of happiness + between the pain of the morning and that of the evening, between the man + who is groaning on the right, and the man who is dying on the left. + </p> + <p> + Truly, in the utmost depths of Hell, the damned must mistake their need of + joy for joy itself. + </p> + <p> + I know quite well that there is hope here. + </p> + <p> + So that in hell too there must be hope. + </p> + <p> + IX + </p> + <p> + But lately, Death was the cruel stranger, the stealthy-footed visitor.... + Now, it is the romping dog of the house. + </p> + <p> + Do you remember the days when the human body seemed made for joy, when + each of its organs represented a function and a delight? Now, each part of + the body evokes the evil that threatens it, and the special suffering it + engenders. + </p> + <p> + Apart from this, it is well adapted for its part in the laborious drama: + the foot to carry a man to the attack; the arm to work the cannon; the eye + to watch the adversary or adjust the weapon. + </p> + <p> + But lately, Death was no part of life. We talked of it covertly. Its image + was at once painful and indecent, calculated to upset the plans and + projects of existence. It worked as far as possible in obscurity, silence + and retirement. We disguised it with symbols; we announced it in laborious + paraphrases, marked by a kind of shame. + </p> + <p> + To-day Death is closely bound up with the things of life. And this is + true, not so much because its daily operations are on a vast scale, + because it chooses the youngest and the healthiest among us, because it + has become a kind of sacred institution, but more especially because it + has become a thing so ordinary that it no longer causes us to suspend our + usual activities, as it used to do: we eat and drink beside the dead, we + sleep amidst the dying, we laugh and sing in the company of corpses. + </p> + <p> + And how, indeed, can it be otherwise? You know quite well that man cannot + live without eating, drinking, and sleeping, nor without laughing and + singing. + </p> + <p> + Ask all those who are suffering their hard Calvary here. They are gentle + and courageous, they sympathise with the pain of others; but they must eat + when the soup comes round, sleep, if they can, during the long night; and + try to laugh again when the ward is quiet, and the corpse of the morning + has been carried out. + </p> + <p> + Death remains a great thing, but one with which one's relations have + become frequent and intimate. Like the king who shows himself at his + toilet, Death is still powerful, but it has become familiar and slightly + degraded. + </p> + <p> + Lerouet died just now. We closed his eyes, tied up his chin, then pulled + out the sheet to cover the corpse while it was waiting for the + stretcher-bearers. + </p> + <p> + "Can't you eat anything?" said Mulet to Maville. Maville, who is very + young and shy, hesitates: "I can't get it down." + </p> + <p> + And after a pause, he adds: "I can't bear to see such things." + </p> + <p> + Mulet wipes his plate calmly and says: "Yes, sometimes it used to take + away my appetite too, so much so that I used to be sick. But I have got + accustomed to it now." + </p> + <p> + Pouchet gulps down his coffee with a sort of feverish eagerness. + </p> + <p> + "One feels glad to get off with the loss of a leg when one sees that." + </p> + <p> + "One must live," adds Mulet. + </p> + <p> + "Well, for all the pleasure one gets out of life...." + </p> + <p> + Beliard is the speaker. He had a bullet in the bowel, yet we hope to get + him well soon. But his whole attitude betrays indifference. He smokes a + great deal, and rarely speaks. He has no reason to despair, and he knows + that he can resume his ordinary life. But familiarity with Death, which + sometimes makes life seem so precious, occasionally ends by producing a + distaste for it, or rather a deep weariness of it. + </p> + <p> + X + </p> + <p> + A whole nation, ten whole nations are learning to live in Death's company. + Humanity has entered the wild beast's cage, and sits there with the + patient courage of the lion-tamer. + </p> + <p> + Men of my country, I learn to know you better every day, and from having + looked you in the face at the height of your sufferings, I have conceived + a religious hope for the future of our race. It is mainly owing to my + admiration for your resignation, your native goodness, your serene + confidence in better times to come that I can still believe in the moral + future of the world. + </p> + <p> + At the very hour when the most natural instinct inclines the world to + ferocity, you preserve, on your beds of suffering, a beauty, a purity of + outlook which goes far to atone for the monstrous crime. Men of France, + your simple grandeur of soul redeems humanity from its greatest crime, and + raises it from its deep abyss. + </p> + <p> + We are told how you bear the misery of the battle-field, how in the + discouraging cold and mud, you await the hour of your cruel duty, how you + rush forward to meet the mortal blow, through the unimaginable tumult of + peril. + </p> + <p> + But when you come here, there are further sufferings in store for you; and + I know with what courage you endure them. + </p> + <p> + The doors of the Chateau close on a new life for you, a life that is also + one of perpetual peril and contest. I help you in this contest, and I see + how gallantly you wage it. + </p> + <p> + Not a wrinkle in your faces escapes me. Not one of your pains, not one of + the tremors of your lacerated flesh. And I write them all down, just as I + note your simple words, your cries, your sighs of hope, as I also note the + expression of your faces at the solemn hour when man speaks no more. + </p> + <p> + Not one of your words leaves me unmoved; there is not one of your actions + which is not worthy of record. All must contribute to the history of our + great ordeal. + </p> + <p> + For it is not enough to give oneself up to the sacred duty of succour. It + is not enough to apply the beneficent knife to the wound, or to change the + dressings skilfully and carefully. + </p> + <p> + It is also my mission to record the history of those who have been the + sacrificial victims of the race, without gloss, in all its truth and + simplicity; the history of the men you have shown yourselves to be in + suffering. + </p> + <p> + If I left this undone, you would, no doubt, be cured as perfectly, or + would perish none the less; but the essence of the majestic lesson would + be lost, the most splendid elements of your courage would remain barren. + </p> + <p> + And I invite all the world to bow before you with the same attentive + reverence, WITH HEARTS THAT FORGET NOTHING. + </p> + <p> + Union of pure hearts to meet the ordeal! Union of pure hearts that our + country may know and respect herself! Union of pure hearts for the + redemption of the stricken world! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The New Book Of Martyrs, by Georges Duhamel + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE NEW BOOK OF MARTYRS *** + +***** This file should be named 4325-h.htm or 4325-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/4/3/2/4325/ + +Produced by Robert Rowe, Charles Franks, David Widger +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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