STRENGTH OF MIND
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 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. 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 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 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 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 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....