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.
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.
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?"
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
"Tell me, Monsieur," he murmured, "it's the Third Symphony, isn't it,
that you are... what do you call it?--yes... whistling."
First, I stopped whistling. Then I answered: "Yes, I believe it is the
Third Symphony"; then I remained silent and confused.
A slender bridge had just been flung across the abyss.
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.