concussions of the guns, the French scrambled out of their trenches
and went forward. But no sudden blast of lead and iron challenged
their temerity. A few shells, but all from field pieces, fired
perfunctorily as it were, fell near them and occasionally among
them. It looked as if Fritz wasn't going to fight.
The wire guarding the first line of German trenches had been so
torn and disrupted by the French cannon, that only here and there
an ugly strand remained to be cut. The trench was empty.
"The Boche," said Paul Guitry, "has left nothing but his smell."
Rumor spread swiftly through the lines. "We are not to be opposed.
Fritz has been withdrawn in the night. His lines are too long.
He is straightening out his salients. It is the beginning of the
end."
There was good humor and elation. There was also a feeling of
admiration for the way in which Fritz had managed to retreat without
being detected.
The country over which the troops advanced was a rolling desert,
blasted, twisted, swept clear of all vegetation. What the Germans
could not destroy they had carried away with them. There remained
only frazzled stumps of trees, dead bodies and ruined engines of
war.
Paul Guitry and the Idiot came at last to the summit of a little
hill. Beyond and below at the end of a long sweep of tortured and
ruined fields could be seen picturesquely grouped a few walls of
houses and one bold arch of an ancient bridge.
The Idiot blinked stupidly. Then he laughed a short, ugly laugh.
"I had counted on seeing the church steeple. But of course they
would have destroyed that."
"Is it Champ-de-Fer?" asked Guitry.
At that moment a dark and sudden smoke, as from ignited chemicals
began to pour upward from the ruined village.
"It was," said the Idiot, and once more the word was passed to go
forward.
II
They did not know what was going on in the world. They had been
ordered into the cellars of the village, and told to remain there
for twenty-four hours. They had no thought but to obey.
Into the same cellar with Jeanne Bergère had been herded four old
women, two old men, and a little boy whom a German surgeon (the day
the champagne had been discovered buried in the Notary's garden)
had strapped to a board and--vivisected.
Twenty-three of the twenty-four hours had passed (one of the old
men had a Waterbury watch) but only the little boy complained of
hunger and thirst. He wanted to drink from the well in the corner
of the cellar; but they would not let him. The well had supplied
good drinking water since the days of Julius Caesar, but shortly
after entering the cellar one of the old women had drunk from it,
and shortly afterward had died in great torment. The little boy
kept saying:
"But maybe it wasn't the water which killed Madame Pigeon. Only
let me try it and then we shall know for sure."
But they would not let him drink.
"It is not agreeable to live," said one of the old men, "but it
is necessary. We are of those who will be called upon to testify.
The terms of peace will be written by soft-hearted statesmen; we
who have suffered must be on hand. We must be on hand to see that
the Boche gets his deserts."
Jeanne Bergère spoke in a low unimpassioned voice:
"What would you do to them, father," she asked, "if you were God?"
"I do not know," said the old man. "For I have experience only
of those things which give them pleasure. Those who delight in
peculiar pleasures are perhaps immune to ordinary pains...."
"Surely," interrupted the little boy, "it was not the water that
killed Madame Pigeon."
"How peaceful she looks," said the old man. "You would say the
stone face of a saint from the façade of a cathedral."
"It may be," said Jeanne Bergère, "that already God has opened His
mind to her, and that she knows of that vengeance, which we with
our small minds are not able to invent."
"I can only think of what they have done to us," said the old man.
"It does not seem as if there was anything left for us to do to
them. Vengeance which does not give the Avenger pleasure is a poor
sort of vengeance. Madame Simon..."
The old woman in question turned a pair of sheeny eyes towards the
speaker.
"Would it give you any particular pleasure to cut the breasts off
an old German woman?"
With a trembling hand Madame Simon flattened the bosom of her dress
to show that there was nothing beneath.
"It would give me no pleasure," she said, "but I shall show my
scars to the President."
"An eye for an eye--a tooth for a tooth," said the old man. "That
is the ancient law. But it does not work. There is no justice in
exchanging a German eye and a French. French eyes see beauty in
everything. To the German eye the sense of beauty has been denied.
You cannot compare a beast and a man. In the old days, when there
were wolves, it was the custom of the naive people of those days
to torture a wolf if they caught one. They put him to death with
the same refinements which were requisitioned for human criminals.
This meant nothing to the wolf. The mere fact that he had been
caught was what tortured him. And so I think it will be with the
Germans when they find that they have failed. They have built
up their power on the absurd hypothesis that they are men. Their
punishment will be in discovering that they never were anything
but low animals and never could be."
"That is too deep for me," said the other man. "They tied my
daughter to her bed, and afterward they set fire to her mattress."
"I wish," said Jeanne Bergère, "that they had set fire to my
mattress."
A violent concussion shook the cellar to its foundations. Even
the face of the thirsty little boy brightened.
"It is one of ours," he said.
"To eradicate the lice which feed upon the Germans and the foul
smells which emanate from their bodies there is nothing so effective
as high explosives," said the old man. He looked at his watch and
said:
"We have half an hour more."
At the end of that time, he climbed the cellar stair, pushed open
the door, and looked out. Partly in the bright sunlight and partly
in the deep shadows, he resembled a painting by Rembrandt.
"I see no one," he said. "There is a lot of smoke."
His eyes became suddenly wide open, fixed, round with a kind of
celestial astonishment. This his old French heart stopped beating,
and he fell to the foot of the stair. His companions thought that
he must have been shot. They dared not move.
But it was no bullet or fragment of far-blown shell that had laid
the old man low. He had seen in the smoke that whirled down the
village street, a little soldier in the uniform of France. Pure
unadulterated joy had struck him dead.
Five minutes passed, and no one had moved except the little boy.
With furtive glances and trembling hands he had crept to the old
well in the corner and drunk a cup of the poisoned water. Then he
crept back to his place.
The second old man now rose, drew a deep breath and climbed
the cellar stair. For a time he stood blinking, and mouthing his
scattered teeth. He was trying to speak and could not.
"What is it?" they called up to him. "What has happened?"
He did not answer. He made inarticulate sounds, and suddenly with
incredible speed, darted forward into the smoke and the sunlight.
A little hand cold and wet crept into Jeanne Bergère's. She was
vexed. She wished to go out of the cellar with the others; but the
little hand clung to her so tightly that she could not free herself.
Except for the old woman who had drunk from the well, and the old
man, all in a heap at the foot of the cellar stair, they were alone.
She and the little boy.
"It is true," said the little boy, "at least I think it is true
about the water...when...nobody was looking.... Please, please
stay with me, Jeanne Bergère."
"You drank when it was forbidden? That was very naughty, Charlie....
Good God, what am I saying--you poor baby--you poor baby." She
snatched him into her arms, and held him with a kind of tigerish
ferocity.
"It hurts," said Charlie. "It hurts. It hurts me all over. It
hurts worse all the time."
"I will go for help," she said. "Wait."
"Please do not go away."
"You want to die?"
The child nodded.
"If I grow up, I should not be a man," he said. "You know what
the doctor did to me?"
"I know," she said briefly, "but you shan't die if I can help it."
She could not help it. A few minutes after she had gone, his back
strongly arched became rigid. His jaws locked and he died in the
attitude of a wrestler making a bridge.
The village street was full of smoke and Frenchmen. These were
methodically fighting the fires and hunting the ruins for Germans.
Jeanne Bergère seized one of the little soldiers by the elbow.
"Come quickly," she said, "there is a child poisoned!"
The Idiot turned, and she would have fallen if he had not caught
her. She tore herself loose from his arms with a kind of ferocity.
"Come! Come!" she cried, and she ran like a frightened animal back
to the cellar door, the Idiot close behind her.
The Idiot knelt by the dead child, and after feeling in vain for
any pulsation, straightened up and said:
"He is dead."
"He drank from the well," said Jeanne. "We told him that it was
poisoned. But he was so thirsty."
They tried to straighten the little boy, but could not. The Idiot
rose to his feet, and looked at her for the first time. He must
have made some motion with his hands, for she cried suddenly:
"Don't! You mustn't touch me!"
"We have always loved each other," he said simply.
"You don't understand."
"What have you been through? I understand. Kiss me."
She held him at arm's length.
"Listen," she said. "The old people would not leave the village,--your
father and mother...so I stayed. At that time it was still supposed
that the Germans were human beings..."
"And my father and mother?" asked the Idiot.
"Some of the people went into the street to see the Germans enter
the village. But we watched from a window in your father's house....
They were Uhlans, who came first. They were so drunk that they
could hardly sit on their horses. Their lieutenant took a sudden
fancy to Marie Lebrun, but when he tried to kiss her, she slapped
his face.... That seemed to sober him.... Old man Lebrun had
leapt forward to protect his daughter.
"'Are you her father?'" asked the Lieutenant.
"'Yes,'" said the old man.
"'Bind him,'" said the lieutenant, and then he gave an order and
some men went into the house and came out dragging a mattress....
They dragged it into the middle of the street.... They held old
man Lebrun so that he had to see everything...for some hours, as
many as wanted to.... Then the lieutenant stepped forward and shot
her through the head, and then he shot her father.... Your father
and mother hid me in the cellar of their house, as well as they
could.... But from the Germans nothing remains long hidden....
Your father and mother tried to defend me...tied them to their
bed...and...set fire to the house."
The Idiot's granite-gray face showed no new emotion.
"And you?"
She shook her head violently.
"What you cannot imagine," she said. "I have forgotten.... There
have been so many.... No street-walker has ever been through what
I have been through.... There's nothing more to say...I wanted to
live...to bear witness against them.... For you and me everything
is finished..."
"Almost," said the Idiot. "You talk as if you no longer loved me."
The granite-gray of his face had softened into the ruddy, sun-burned
coloring of a healthy young soldier, long in the field, and she
could not resist the strong arms that he opened to her.
"They have not touched your soul," said the Idiot.
[signed] Gouverneur Morris
Memories of Whitman and Lincoln
"When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd" --W. W.
Lilacs shall bloom for Walt Whitman
And lilacs for Abraham Lincoln.
Spring hangs in the dew of the dooryards
These memories--these memories--
They hang in the dew for the bard who fetched
A sprig of them once for his brother
When he lay cold and dead....
And forever now when America leans in the dooryard
And over the hills Spring dances,
Smell of lilacs and sight of lilacs shall bring to her heart these brothers....
Lilacs shall bloom for Walt Whitman
And lilacs for Abraham Lincoln.
Who are the shadow-forms crowding the night?
What shadows of men?
The stilled star-night is high with these brooding spirits--
Their shoulders rise on the Earth-rim, and they are great presences in heaven--
They move through the stars like outlined winds in young-leaved maples.
Lilacs bloom for Walt Whitman
And lilacs for Abraham Lincoln.
Deeply the nation throbs with a world's anguish--
But it sleeps, and I on the housetops
Commune with souls long dead who guard our land at midnight,
A strength in each hushed heart--
I seem to hear the Atlantic moaning on our shores with the plaint of the dying
And rolling on our shores with the rumble of battle....
I seem to see my country growing golden toward California,
And, as fields of daisies, a people, with slumbering up-turned faces
Leaned over by Two Brothers,
And the greatness that is gone.
Lilacs bloom for Walt Whitman
And lilacs for Abraham Lincoln.
Spring runs over the land,
A young girl, light-footed, eager...
For I hear a song that is faint and sweet with first love,
Out of the West, fresh with the grass and the timber,
But dreamily soothing the sleepers...
I listen: I drink it deep.
Softly the Spring sings,
Softly and clearly:
"I open lilacs for the beloved,
Lilacs for the lost, the dead.
And, see, for the living, I bring sweet strawberry blossoms,
And I bring buttercups, and I bring to the woods anemones and blue bells...
I open lilacs for the beloved,
And when my fluttering garment drifts through dusty cities,
And blows on hills, and brushes the inland sea,
Over you, sleepers, over you, tired sleepers,
A fragrant memory falls...
I open love in the shut heart,
I open lilacs for the beloved."
Lilacs bloom for Walt Whitman
And lilacs for Abraham Lincoln.
Was that the Spring that sang, opening locked hearts,
And is remembrance mine?
For I know these two great shadows in the spacious night,
Shadows folding America close between them,
Close to the heart...
And I know how my own lost youth grew up blessedly in their spirit,
And how the morning song of the might bard
Sent me out from my dreams to the living America,
To the chanting seas, to the piney hills, down the railroad vistas,
Out into the streets of Manhattan when the whistles blew at seven,
Down to the mills of Pittsburgh and the rude faces of labor...
And I know how the grave great music of that other,
Music in which lost armies sang requiems,
And the vision of that gaunt, that great and solemn figure,
And the graven face, the deep eyes, the mouth,
O human-hearted brother,
Dedicated anew my undevoted heart
to America, my land.
Lilacs bloom for Walt Whitman
And lilacs for Abraham Lincoln.
Now in this hour I was suppliant for these two brothers,
And I said: Your land has need:
Half-awakened and blindly we grope in the great world....
What strength may we take from our Past, What promise hold for our future?
And the one brother leaned and whispered:
"I put my strength in a book,
And in that book my love...
This, with my love, I give to America..."
And the other brother leaned and murmured:
"I put my strength in a life,
And in that life my love,
This, with my love, I give to America."
Lilacs bloom for Walt Whitman
And lilacs for Abraham Lincoln.
Then my heart sang out: This strength shall be our strength:
Yea, when the great hour comes, and the sleepers wake and are hurled back,
And creep down into themselves
There shall they find Walt Whitman
And there, Abraham Lincoln.
O Spring, go over this land with much singing
And open the lilacs everywhere,
Open them out with the old-time fragrance
Making a people remember that something has been forgotten,
Something is hidden deep--strange memories--strange memories--
Of him that brought a sprig of the purple cluster
To him that was mourned of all...
And so they are linked together
While yet America lives...
While yet America lives, my heart,
Lilacs shall bloom for Walt Whitman
And lilacs for Abraham Lincoln.
[signed] James Oppenheim
Bred to the Sea
Ye who are bred to the sea, sons of the sons of seamen,
In what faith do ye sail? By what creed do ye hold?
Little we know of faiths, and we leave the creeds to the parsons.
But we 'bide by the law of the sea which our father made of old.
Where is that sea law writ for mariners and for captains,
That they may know the law by which they sail the sea?
We never saw it writ for sailormen or for masters;
But 'tis laid with the keel of the ship. What would you have?
Let be.
Ye who went down tot he sea in ships and perished aforetime,
In what faith did ye sail? In what creed did ye die?
What is that law to which your lives were forfeit?
What do ye teach your sons that they may not deny?
We kept the faith of our breed. We died in the creed of seamen,
As our sons, too, shall die: the sea will have its way.
The law which bade us sail with death in smack and whaler,
In tall ship and in open boat, is the seaman's law to-day.
The master shall rule his crew. The crew shall obey the master.
Ye shall work your ship while she fleets and ye can stand.
Though ye starve, and freeze, and drown, shipmate shall stand
by shipmate.
Ye shall 'bide by this law of seafaring folk, though ye never
come to land.
Ye shall hold your lives in trust for those who need your succor:
A flash of fire by night, a loom of smoke by day,
A rag to an oar shall be to you the symbol
Of your faith, of your creed, of the law which sailormen obey.
Ye shall not count the odds, ye shall not weigh the danger,
When life is to be saved from storm, from fire, from thirst.
Ye shall not leave your foe adrift and helpless;
And when the boats go overside, 't is, "Women and children
first."
We kept this faith of our breed. We died in this creed of seamen.
We sealed our creed with our lives. It shall endure alway.
The law which bade us sail with death in smack and whaler,
In tall ship and in open boat, is the seaman's law to-day.
[signed] James W. Pryor.
Our Defenders
Across the fields of waving wheat
And leagues of golden corn
The fragrance of the wild-rose bloom
And elder-flower is borne;
But earth's appealing loveliness
We do but half surmise,
For oh, the blur of battle-fields
Is ever in our eyes.
The robin-red-breast and the wren,
We cannot harken these
For dreadful thunder of the guns
That echoes overseas;
And evermore our vision turns
To those who follow far
The bright white light of Liberty
Through the red fires of war.
Our thoughts are with the hero souls
And hero hearts of gold
Who keep Old Glory's hallowed stars
Untarnished as of old;
Who join their hands with hero hands
In hero lands to save
The fearless forehead of the free
The shameful brand of slave.
And through these days of strife and death,
We know they shall not fail,
That Freedom shall not pass from earth
Nor tyranny prevail;
Yea, those that now in anguish bow,
We know that soon or late
They shall be lifted from beneath
The iron heel of hate.
O brave defenders of the free,
For you our tears of pride!
Lo, every drop of blood you shed
Our hearts have sanctified!
And through these days of strife and death,
These weary night-times through,
Our spirits watch with yours, our love
It hovers over you.
[signed] Evaleen Stein
The Bomb
I
"You are late. Billy's been howling the house down."
"All babies cry, big or little, now and then. The nurse is with
Billy. I--" Nellie Cameron paused to smooth a quiver out of her
voice--"I am not late."
"You are not?" Joseph Cameron, bewildered, laid his paper upon his
knees and squinted up at his wife.
"No, Joe, I am not." As if it absorbed her, and no one could
have said that it did not, for she kept house beautifully, Nellie
straightened an etching; the quietly she walked out of the room.
She went into their bedroom and closed the door. After a while
Cameron, watching warily, saw her come into the hall again in a
peach-colored dress that he particularly liked her in; saw her go
down the hall, away from him--and she had a very good back--to the
nursery door, the warm, cheerful firelight falling full upon her
face, her hands, her softly glowing dress. Billy, their only son,
just learning to walk, toddled to meet her. Cameron saw the chubby
hands rumple her skirts, saw Nellie stoop and swing him high with
her firm arms, the drop him to his place upon her breast. The
door close, the hall was shadowy again, the apartment as still as
a place marked "To Let."
The dinner was on time and excellent; Nellie, decorative and
chatty, was promptly in her place. Dinner over, they went to the
sitting-room for their coffee. The apartment was very high up, the
windows looking over the tree-tops of the Drive, across the Hudson
tot he Jersey shore. It was March, and the shore lights wavered
in gusts of rain that threatened to turn to snow. The room was
warm; Cameron was suffocating; Nellie was serenely unaware. She
had eaten well, from her soup through her cheese. There are times
when, to a man, a woman's appetite is the last straw. She was
tired, she said, but at her ease, and never prettier.
"Going out to-night, Joey?"
"Yes. Bridge hand around at Gordon's. Want a talk with Gordon
about a matter of business."
"I like to have things to do in the afternoon, but when night
comes"--Nellie smothered a contented yawn--"I love getting into
something comfy, and just buzzing round our own lamp."
"I must own that I have never found afternoon diversions to be
diverting." To save him he could not keep his voice good-natured.
He had had a grind of a day, and was dog-tired; it seemed to him
she ought to know it and talk about it.
"Yes?" Nellie mused. "It was amusing at the club to-day--the
Non-descripts." She laughed softly. "It wasn't 'nondescript'
to-day, though!"
"Some old maid telling you to bring your children up on the country,
and throw your husbands out of their jobs?"
"What, Joey?" Nellie seemed to bring her thoughts back from a long
way off. "Old maid? I should say not! We had a man. We nearly
always do. Then everybody comes, and there's more glow. He was an
English socialist--I guess he was a socialist. Burne-Jones hair,
and a homespun jacket,--loose, and all that,--and a heavy ribbon
on his glasses. He talked about the new man."
"The--what?"
"The new man." Nellie opened her eyes wide, as if her husband
puzzled her.
"Well--I'm damned!"
Nellie broke into sudden mirth.
"You were, Joey dear; that is just what you were. You were damned
all the way there and back again."
Cameron strangled.
"Have I the honor to typify the--new creature?"
"You're the very image of him, Joey dear." And she smiled upon
him as if he were some new moth, in at their window, to buzz round
their lamp.
"And--this person--?"
Nellie became eagerly communicative.
"I do wonder if I can make you see him? Tall and dark, and with
good-looking, thinnish hands and almost amusing way of playing
with his eye-glasses. You know, Joey: the sort of distinguished
talk-it-all-out sort of man that just makes men rage. Of course,"
she went on, largely wise, "he's the sort of socialist to make a
real socialist rage, but he's just the thing for clubs."
"You often have them?"
"Of course," she laughed. "You see, we don't see much of men at
home any more. It keeps us from forgetting how you look, and how
amusing you may be."
Cameron gazed before him into a chaos without words.
Nellie was oblivious.
"He finished off with a perfect bomb, Joey. It was funny! Of
course the new man's a city product, and he drew him to the life:
rushed and tortured by ambition, tired out at the end of the day,
too tired to be possibly amusing, his nerves excited till anything
quieter than lower Broadway hurts his ears, all passion and
brilliance spent on business, dinners here and there, with people
who all have their ax to grind, too, and are keyed up to it by
rows and rows of cocktails. He drew him without mercy, and he had
every wife there either wincing or laughing, with the truth of what
he said. He was quite eloquent." She paused, she laughed softly,
she turned her eyes upon him. "Then, Joey, guess--just guess!--what
he said!"
"Far be it from me!"
"He said that any intelligent modern woman would require at
least one husband and three lovers to arrive at the standards and
companionship of one wholesome old-fashioned man!"
Cameron got to his feet and held to the top shelf of the bookcase.
"Do you mean to tell me that respectable women sit and listen to
such talk?"