would it be a surprise to hear that not for one instant during that time did i experience the faintest shadow of discouragement? and yet i did not shut my eyes to the truth. i did not in the least disregard the desperately critical element in our position. my steadfastness arose, i believe, from the deep-rooted conviction that if, in such circumstances, the nation abandoned the least iota of her self-confidence, all would be up with her and with us. i was conscious of being a molecule participating in the whole. the slightest faltering on my part would have diminished the strength of my platoon, of my company, of the whole regiment. in the same way, i thought, my energy must raise it and reinforce it. and besides, my will did not need stiffening, i was steeped in serene faith, infinitely more convinced of our final success, all through this retreat, which resembled a disaster, than i had been a few days before, when i kept watch at the outposts of a victorious army. "just wait a little," i repeated to myself obstinately. our adversary was gaining an advantage, driving us in front of him. very well! we were suffering, and we should suffer endless ills,—especially when autumn came on,—desertions, partial mutinies might occur. everyone counted on some terrible epidemic. there would be[pg 324] nothing surprising in new and still more serious defeats. yes, but afterwards, afterwards? afterwards, i conceived a limit to our misfortunes, but not to our resources. i discerned in myself, in us, a capacity for resistance against which the effort of the enemy would spend itself in vain however tenacious it might be.
to what must i attribute the expansion of my strength of mind? i asked myself then, and have considered it since.
to the boon, first of all, of being descended from that sturdy stock. i remembered the vitality my mother had always shown. had she not nursed me at night during my long illnesses for three weeks at a time, without neglecting one of her duties during the day? and my father, and his behaviour from one end to the other of the preceding war! taken prisoner once, wounded twice, he considered the armistice shamefully premature after six months of incessant fighting.
on searching my memory, i did not fail to find indication of the force latent in me, which had had no opportunity of increasing owing to the paltry conditions of my life as a young well-to-do bourgeois. that rugby semi-final for the inter-school championship, played between my college and the "lilies of the valley" from bourdeaux. our opponents, favoured by the wind and sun, had kept the game in our "twenty-five" nearly all the first half, and had scored four tries and two goals. that meant a beating for us; despair in our team. i can see myself at half-time, ceasing to suck my lemon in order to make a manly speech to my fourteen comrades. in the second half, we kicked off, got the play into their "twenty-five," and in our turn, scored two tries, the second of which was converted.[pg 325] we could not have gained more satisfaction by beating them, than we did by avoiding a humiliating defeat.
does the comparison make you smile?
but i belonged to a generation which had already profited by the proud lesson of sport. i had pursued all the most violent athletics, less on rational than on passionate grounds, and for the delights of self-love which bear such a wonderful attraction for youthful hearts. i had run, boxed, and swum. i had been broken into the games where the individual learns to collaborate unselfishly with his partners. i bear witness to the nobility of that school. without suspecting it i had gained a moral education there. one comes out tempered for any struggle, after having tried conclusions with rival energies over and over again in friendly meetings.
and even if i had gained nothing but the bodily benefit!
the play of my muscles and organs was free and healthy and unhampered. well fed as we were, except on one or two occasions, i could have gone to the world's end. as i became hardened, i no longer got as tired as i had on the first days. i lay down to sleep, never mind where, and i slept. on waking up all i felt was a suspicion of stiffness, nothing more. the first advance! how often i was lucky enough to be able to give a helping hand to some man, by carrying his rifle or his load for him for an hour or two. my own pack sat lightly on me, seemed to have become part of me. i remember how distracted i was one day—i must have left it on the bank just now, i exclaimed, during the long halt...!
guillaumin saw that i was not laughing, it was he[pg 326] who exploded: my pack? it had been plastered on to my shoulders the whole blessed time!
another motive for my strength of mind, the chief one, was my correspondence.
there were many complaints during those weeks, about the delay in the postal service. with us—i can only state the fact—it worked adequately, no, admirably. i have described how the baggage-master caught us up, the day after "spincourt." by some knack, or lucky chance, we saw him arrive twice more during the week, trotting cheerily along behind his lean mare. he was a good sort, and related his adventures, which others might have called feats of prowess. how many times had he just missed being killed, wounded, or taken prisoner! these were reliable accounts: his cart had been riddled, and the splinter of a shell had pulverised one of his post-bags one day. neither he nor his beast had ever been touched.
the second mail brought me a letter from my father. he knew at last; he had had official information. it was a grave and sorrowful missive. his affection and hope were centred entirely upon me, he assured me. in his manlike way of expressing himself, where there was not one unnecessary word, i discovered traces of an attachment which i had formerly refused to recognise.
and this added page—was from the poor little widow. after leaving st. mihiel, which was threatened, she reached paris just in time to be greeted by the abominable news. she was bearing up in the face of the terrible shock. i had dreaded collapse and prostration for her. and now no one could help admiring her, shining with resolute determination in[pg 327] her affliction—two little children to bring up—the sense of her duties! how i should have liked to go to her and take her hands and say: "i mourn with you, my sister. if i live, dispose of me as you will!"
what a transport of delight i was thrown into by these appearances of the baggage-master. jeannine, with divine consideration, had written to me again without waiting for my reply, which might be delayed, she said, by so many chances. in future she intended to write me a line almost every day. a line! that meant long, affectionate epistles. two reached me at once, then three together, the second time.
with a modesty to which i mutely paid homage, jeannine avoided all allusions to the new state of affairs which had actually risen between us. but i read her passionate infatuation between the lines, in the burning contents of these letters. scraps of them still float in my memory. she spoke of herself and of me, of my people and her people—our people. she touched lightly upon every subject, which at that time affected us like so many millions of our brothers. did she not recall as if by chance various of those high problems which had formed the subject of our smiling discussions at ballaigues—self-sacrifice, abnegation, disinterested attachment to such and such an idea or being? did i deign now to bow before this sublime foolishness, she wondered? she did not insist upon it. she knew that she had easily carried her point. i developed our motives of inspiration, and returned them to her. they were all secretly contained—and she felt it, the sweet creature—in this one, we loved each other.
love! i dared to look this prodigious word in the[pg 328] face. the vision of promised joy kept me up. when once the war was over, the country saved,—in her eyes and in mine, everything else must give way to that—i pictured our reunion, our brief betrothal, and the day, oh god, the day when we should kneel side by side—what could it matter whatever separated me from that time? toil and suffering, the spilling of my blood, what was it all? a moderate advance when such wondrous radiance filled the horizon.
i had not given up my habit of analysis. an attitude of mind which stays with one, i believe, till death, when once adopted. i sometimes wondered at my youthful enthusiasm. was i a captive? caught up in the whirlwind? i who had thought myself safely in shelter. i asked myself whether this ardour were not partially fictitious or at all events ephemeral? how unlike me it was—i, who was so much imbued with the idea of my cold-bloodedness and stoicism—to become infatuated about this child, and that too when i was no longer in her presence, when i had been able to live beside her for weeks without being in the least perturbed or inflamed. such reflections drew me as the bushes on the river-bank draw an abandoned boat drifting with the current. it was only a brief fluctuation. i gave one or two powerful strokes with the oars, and regained the open river, where the rapid stream carried me away.
it was true, i admitted, that a month or two ago, when i had been face to face with her, i was incapable of love, or of any exalted feelings. but was i alive at that time? no. no. a secret affliction robbed my destiny of all true zest. let me revel to-day in the supreme instinct which was reviving in me! was this instinct folly? it was quite possible. especially this[pg 329] passion which had suddenly blossomed in such abnormal circumstances? but what was there more beautiful than a beautiful folly? if, after having been hurled, by the brutality of circumstances, from my quietude into the sphere where the fate of primitive beings was under discussion—what more natural than that i should be born anew to their fire and rapture. what delight there was in recurring to an artless frame of mind, what pride at the same time in retaining a certain elevation of thought. love could no longer mean for me mere desire. i magnificently mingled metaphysical reveries with it. i flattered myself on having attained perfect poise—on being philosopher enough to give my fever an august flavour—man enough to quiver at it.
in my replies to jeannine i was as reserved as she was as regarded our deepest feelings. like her i poured myself out in passionate meditations on the present circumstances. any treatment seemed to suit them, from arch frivolity to lyricism. i, who formerly used to be so particular about each letter being written in an accurate, and indeed elegant style, now scribbled away at page after page, just as they occurred to me. i did not even read them over! a soldier to his fiancée! the slips must take care of themselves. and i took a kind of pride in baring my soul, which no longer hid any evil recesses....
