Under Fire - Henri Barbusse (best book series to read txt) 📗

know all right I was getting violent, I was getting out of control.

“Mark me. I don’t want to say more about it than I have said. She’s a good lass, Clotilde. I know her, and I’ve confidence in her. I’m not far wrong, you know. If I were done in, she’d cry all the tears in her body to begin with. She thinks I’m alive, I admit, but that isn’t the point. She can’t prevent herself from being; well off, and contented, and letting herself go, when she’s a good fire, a good lamp, and company, whether I’m there or not—”

I led Poterloo away: “You exaggerate, old chap; you’re getting absurd notions, come.” We had walked very slowly and were still at the foot of the hill. The fog was becoming like silver as it prepared for departure. Sunshine was very near.

*

Poterloo looked up and said, “We’ll go round by the Carency road and go in at the back.” We struck off at an angle into the fields. At the end of a few minutes he said to me, “I exaggerate, you think? You say that I exaggerate?” He reflected. “Ah!” Then he added, with the shaking of the head that had hardly left him all the morning, “What about it? All the same, it’s a fact—”

We climbed the slope. The cold had become tepidity. Arrived on a little plateau—“Let’s sit here again before going in,” he proposed. He sat down, heavy with the world of thought that entangled him. His forehead was wrinkled. Then he turned towards me with an awkward air, as if he were going to beg some favor: “Tell me, mate, I’m wondering if I’m right.”

But after looking at me, he looked at everything else, as though he would rather consult them than me.

A transformation was taking place in the sky and on the earth. The fog was hardly more than a fancy. Distances revealed themselves. The narrow plain, gloomy and gray, was getting bigger, chasing its shadows away, and assuming color. The light was passing over it from east to west like sails.

And down there at our very feet, by the grace of distance and of light, we saw Souchez among the trees—the little place arose again before our eyes, new-born in the sunshine!

“Am I right?” repeated Poterloo, more faltering, more dubious.

Before I could speak he replied to himself, at first almost in a whisper, as the light fell on him—“She’s quite young, you know; she’s twenty-six. She can’t hold her youth in, it’s coming out of her all over, and when she’s resting in the lamp-light and the warmth, she’s got to smile; and even if she burst out laughing, it would just simply be her youth, singing in her throat. It isn’t on account of others, if truth were told; it’s on account of herself. It’s life. She lives. Ah, yes, she lives, and that’s all. It isn’t her fault if she lives. You wouldn’t have her die? Very well, what do you want her to do? Cry all day on account of me and the Boches? Grouse? One can’t cry all the time, nor grouse for eighteen months. Can’t be done. It’s too long, I tell you. That’s all there is to it.”

He stops speaking to look at the view of Notre-Dame-de-Lorette, now wholly illuminated.

“Same with the kid; when she found herself alongside a simpleton that doesn’t tell her to go and play with herself, she ends by wanting to get on his knee. Perhaps she’d prefer that it was her uncle or a friend or her father—perhaps—but she tries it on all the same with the only man that’s always there, even if it’s a great hog in spectacles.

“Ah,” he cries, as he gets up and comes gesticulating before me. “There’s a good answer one could give me. If I didn’t come back from the war, I should say, ‘My lad, you’ve gone to smash, no more Clotilde, no more love! You’ll be replaced in her heart sooner or later; no getting round it; your memory, the portrait of you that she carries in her, that’ll fade bit by bit and another’ll come on top of it, and she’ll begin another life again.’ Ah, if I didn’t come back!”

He laughs heartily. “But I mean to come back. Ah, yes! One must be there. Otherwise—I must be there, look you,” he says again more seriously; “otherwise, if you’re not there, even if you’re dealing with saints and angels, you’ll be at fault in the end. That’s life. But I am there.” He laughs. “Well, I’m a little there, as one might say!”

I get up too, and tap him on the shoulder. “You’re right, old pal, it’ll all come to an end.”

He rubs his hands and goes on talking. “Yes, by God! it’ll all finish, don’t worry. Oh, I know well there’ll be hard graft before it’s finished, and still more after. We’ve got to work, and I don’t only mean work with the arms.

“It’ll be necessary to make everything over again. Very well, we’ll do it. The house? Gone. The garden? Nowhere. All right, we’ll rebuild the house, we’ll remake the garden. The less there is the more we’ll make over again. After all, it’s life, and we’re made to remake, eh? And we’ll remake our life together, and happiness. We’ll make the days again; we’ll remake the nights.

“And the other side, too. They’ll make their world again. Do you know what I say?—perhaps it won’t be as long as one thinks—”

“Tiens! I can see Madeleine Vandaert marrying another chap. She’s a widow; but, old man, she’s been a widow eighteen months. Do you think it’s not a big slice, that, eighteen months? They even leave off wearing mourning, I believe, about that time! People don’t remember that when they say ‘What a strumpet she is,’ and when, in effect, they ask her to commit suicide. But mon vieux, one forgets. One is forced to forget. It isn’t the people that make you forget; you do it yourself; it’s just forgetfulness, mind you. I find Madeleine again all of a sudden, and to see her frivvling there it broke me up as much as if her husband had been killed yesterday—it’s natural. But it’s a devil of a long time since he got spiked, poor lad. It’s a long time since, it’s too long since. People are no longer the same. But, mark you, one must come back, one must be there! We shall be there, and we shall be busy with beginning again!”

On the way, he looks and winks, cheered up by finding a peg on which to hang his ideas. He says—“I can see it from here, after the war, all the Souchez people setting themselves again to work and to life—what a business! Tiens, Papa Ponce, for example, the back-number! He was so pernickety that you could see him sweeping the grass in his garden with a horsehair brush, or kneeling on his lawn and trimming the turf with a pair of scissors. Very well, he’ll treat himself to that again! And Madame Imaginaire, that lived in one of the last houses towards the Chateau de Carleul, a large woman who seemed to roll along the ground as if she’d got casters under her big circular petticoats. She had a child every year, regular, punctual—a proper machine-gun of kids. Very well, she’ll take that occupation up again with all her might.”

He stops and ponders, and smiles a very little—almost within himself: “Tiens, I’ll tell you; I noticed—it isn’t very important, this,” he insists, as though suddenly embarrassed by the triviality of this parenthesis—“but I noticed (you notice it in a glance when you’re noticing something else) that it was cleaner in our house than in my time—”

We come on some little rails in the ground, climbing almost hidden in the withered grass underfoot. Poterloo points out with his foot this bit of abandoned track, and smiles; “That, that’s our railway. It was a cripple, as you may say; that means something that doesn’t move. It didn’t work very quickly. A snail could have kept pace with it. We shall remake it. But certainly it won’t go any quicker. That can’t be allowed!”

When we reached the top of the hill, Poterloo turned round and threw a last look over the slaughtered places that we had just visited. Even more than a minute ago, distance recreated the village across the remains of trees shortened and sliced that now looked like young saplings. Better even than just now, the sun shed on that white and red accumulation of mingled material an appearance of life and even an illusion of meditation. Its very stones seemed to feel the vernal revival. The beauty of sunshine heralded what would be, and revealed the future. The face of the watching soldier, too, shone with a glamour of reincarnation, and the smile on it was born of the springtime and of hope. His rosy cheeks and blue eyes seemed brighter than ever.

We go down into the communication trench and there is sunshine there. The trench is yellow, dry, and resounding. I admire its finely geometrical depth, its shovel-smoothed and shining flanks; and I find it enjoyable to hear the clean sharp sound of our feet on the hard ground or on the caillebotis—little gratings of wood, placed end to end and forming a plankway.

I look at my watch. It tells me that it is nine o’clock, and it shows me, too, a dial of delicate color where the sky is reflected in rose-pink and blue, and the fine fret-work of bushes that are planted there above the marges of the trench.

And Poterloo and I look at each other with a kind of confused delight. We are glad to see each other, as though we were meeting after absence! He speaks to me, and though I am quite familiar with the singsong accent of the North, I discover that he is singing.

We have had bad days and tragic nights in the cold and the rain and the mud. Now, although it is still winter, the first fine morning shows and convinces us that it will soon be spring once more. Already the top of the trench is graced by green young grass, and amid its new-born quivering some flowers are awakening. It means the end of contracted and constricted days. Spring is coming from above and from below. We inhale with joyful hearts; we are uplifted.

Yes, the had days are ending. The war will end, too, que diable! And no doubt it will end in the beautiful season that is coming, that already illumines us, whose zephyrs already caress us.

A whistling sound—tiens, a spent bullet! A bullet? Nonsense—it’s a blackbird! Curious how similar the sound was! The blackbirds and the birds of softer song, the countryside and the pageant of the seasons, the intimacy of dwelling-rooms, arrayed in light—Oh! the war will end soon; we shall go back for good to our own; wife, children, or to her who is at once wife and child, and we smile towards them in this young glory that already unites us again.

At the forking of the two trenches, in the open and on the edge, here is something like a doorway. Two posts lean one upon the other, with a confusion of electric wires between them, hanging down like tropical creepers. It looks well. You would say it was a theatrical contrivance or scene. A slender climbing plant twines round one of the posts, and as you follow it with your glance, you see that it already dares to pass from one to the other.

Soon, passing along this trench