IN LOVE
As I was going up the road
Ma'selle said, "_Voulez vous_
Come in and have some _pain et beurre_
And _café au lait_ for two."
So now I hope the war won't end;
I'll never go away
And leave my little Madamoiselle
Who sells good _café au lait_.
I hope the war will never end,--
A curse upon the day
That takes me away from Madamoiselle,
Who sells good _café au lait_.
(_From "The Love of an Hour."_)
Fitzgerald made his way to the barn, which was above the byre, sat down
in the straw but did not unloosen his puttees or boots.
A lamp swinging from a beam lit up the apartment, showing the straw
heaped in the corners, the sickles and spades hanging from the rafters,
the sleepers lying in all conceivable positions, the bundles of
equipment, the soldiers' rifles which stood piled in the corners out of
the way. Now and again a rat glided across the straw, stood for a
moment in the light, peered cautiously round, and disappeared. The air
was full of the smell of musty wood, of straw, and of the byre
underneath. All was very quiet, little could be heard save the
breathing of the men, the noise of the restless cattle as they lay down
or got up again. Snoggers and Benners laid themselves on the straw,
Bowdy curled up like a dog, Snoggers stretched out as stiffly as a
statue. Bubb undressed and Fitzgerald, getting to his feet, applied
sticking plaster to the dog's bite.
"You'll go mad, you know," said Fitzgerald. "The only thing that can
save you is to get three hairs of the dog that bit you and put them on
here."
Having performed his job Fitzgerald sat down and Bubb dressed again.
Then he lay on the straw, both hands in his overcoat pockets, one leg
across the other and a cigarette in his mouth.
"Get down to it, Fitz," Snogger shouted. "Ye're damned slow o' showin'
a leg in the mornin', you woman."
"It's all right, Sergeant," the Irishman replied. "I'm just goin' to
look at a paper. I'll be in bed in a twinkling."
"Douse the glim 'fore you kip, then," said the sergeant. "Night!"
Fitzgerald fumbled in his pocket, brought out a newspaper and looked at
it. His thoughts seemed to be elsewhere, for his eye, scanning the
printed columns of an advertisement page, turned from time to time and
rested on the face of Sergeant Snogger.
"I think it's safe now," said Fitzgerald, when five minutes had passed.
"Old Snogger is snoring."
The sergeant was indeed asleep, but had not lost his military pose. He
might have been frozen stiff while standing to attention on the parade
ground and carried from there into the barn and placed down just as he
had been standing. Bowdy was fighting Germans in his dreams. Bubb's
cigarette had fallen on his clothes and the smell of burning pervaded
the barn.
Fitzgerald got to his feet, dropped the newspaper, lifted the fag-end
from Bubb's overcoat and turned out the lamp. Then, stepping across the
sleepers, he made his way cautiously to the door and descended the
steps leading to the farmyard. The night was very quiet; and very dark.
The lights were out in the farmhouse; no doubt the occupants were all
in bed.
"What am I doing out here?" Fitz asked himself. "I'm drunk, that's
why." He stood still and he could feel his heart beating. Something was
moving in the midden and grunting.
"It's a pig, I suppose," said the Irishman. "They're all over the
place." Then he thought of the dog that had bit Bubb. "Will it bite
me?" he questioned and moved hurriedly across the farmyard towards the
gable end of the building. He stood there for a second to draw breath,
then he went round to the back of the house.
All were not yet in bed, a light burned behind a small four-paned
window and the shadow of a girl showed on the blind. Standing a little
distance from the window, Fitzgerald stared at the shadow, watching its
movements. For a moment he had a view of a face in profile, then of a
head bent down and an arm stretching out as if pulling a needle from a
piece of cloth. The girl no doubt was mending some clothes.
"That's Fifi," said Fitzgerald in a whisper. His voice was husky and a
lump rose in his throat. "She's very graceful bending over her work....
Damn it! I'm in love with her.... If not that, I have a great respect
for her ever since I saw her for the first time.... I suppose I have
been a gay Don Juan, but Fifi.... Well, I've never felt like this
before.... Probably I'm drunk and to-morrow.... But all to-day and
yesterday I felt the same.... I don't think I am drunk for I put the
bandage on with a firm hand.... If she would open the window and look
out only for a moment.... I want to see her; I must see her.... Suppose
she spoke to me and then told Snogger in the morning, told him that I
was hanging about her bedroom window all night, what would he say?...
Oh! damn Snogger, he's a fool.... I'll tap on the pane, anyway."
Fitzgerald went up to the window, pressed his hand softly against the
pane, but drew it quickly away.
"I can't," he muttered under his breath. "My God, why have I not more
courage ... a gay Don Juan.... But perhaps she'd do something awful,
throw a tin of water or.... A gay Don Juan," he repeated, in a louder
voice, and then added: "It doesn't matter. I'll let her know I'm here."
He raised his hand and tapped lightly on the pane, then turned, walked
off for a distance of a few yards and stopped. Looking back he saw the
light turned down and heard the window open. The girl looked out into
the darkness.
"Who is there?" she called in a low voice. "What do you want?"
Moving quietly, Fitzgerald made his way back to the window again. The
girl could see him now and apparently recognised him.
"English soldier, you should be asleep," she said, in a voice charged
with laughter. "Go away. What do you want?"
"I want nothing," said Fitzgerald in a hoarse whisper.
In the shadows he could see the outline of her face, which looked
strangely white. "I was up at the Café," he said. "Coming back I saw
the light, so I tapped.... Is it not time for you to be in bed?"
"Listen to him!" said the girl, speaking in a whisper, and bringing her
face close to the man's. "Time to be in bed, indeed! What does it
matter to you when I go to bed? And I have work to do. You English
soldiers never work.... Go away!"
"You are always working, Fifi," said Fitzgerald, without moving from
where he stood.
"Always working," repeated the girl. "We are not like English girls;
they never work. They have too much money. But I must go to bed," she
said, making as though to shut the window. "Au revoir, English
soldier."
"Not yet, not yet!" said Fitzgerald, speaking hurriedly. "I want to
speak to you."
"What are you going to say?" asked the girl in a hesitating voice.
Fitzgerald was silent. He had so much to say, but in reality he said
nothing at all. He merely coughed, unbuttoned the pockets of his tunic
and buttoned them up again. He looked at the girl, and her eyes
dropped.
"What are you going to tell me?" she asked.
"Nothing," Fitzgerald stammered. "I mean.... Au revoir, Fifi."
He turned round and walked away. When he got to the corner, he heard
her calling.
"English soldier, come back," she said in a loud whisper.
Fitzgerald was back with her in an instant.
"What is it, Fifi?" he asked.
"Souvenir pour moi," she said, in a coaxing voice. "Jam, hat badges,
many souvenirs. Boots for my father in the trenches. Other soldiers
give me souvenirs often--but you--never. The sergeant gave me a big
knife. Also chocolate. His mother sent it to him from England. But you,
you never give me anything. Will you give me some souvenirs to-morrow?"
"All right, I will, Fifi," said Fitzgerald. "Many souvenirs."
"And I'll give you beer, café-au-lait, several things," said the girl,
pulling the window a little way towards her. "Au revoir, English
soldier."
She held out her hand, the left, the nearer to her heart, and
Fitzgerald took hold of it. Fifi looked at him smiling.
"Are you in love?" he asked.
"No," said the girl. "Are you?"
"No, certainly not," said Fitzgerald. "I never have been."
"I don't believe you," said Fifi. "You English cannot be trusted. The
English girls are so well dressed."
"Why don't you believe me?" asked Fitzgerald, pressing her hand, and
she made no effort to withdraw it. "I have never been in love; but now
... since I have met you ... I would do anything for you, Fifi. You are
the nicest girl...."
He paused, conscience stricken, for his words seemed so futile. For a
moment he paused, and then a strange thing happened. In all his days
afterwards he could not account for it. How it took place was beyond
his understanding, but he had taken Fifi in his arms and kissed her.
"Fifi, I love you," he said. "I'll do anything for you. After the war,
I'll marry you, come here and live, or take you to England--whatever
you desire.... Tell me that you care for me," he said, pressing her to
his breast.
Fifi started back like a frightened fawn and pulled the window to.
Almost immediately she opened it again and looked out.
"Go away, English soldier," she said, but there was no anger in her
voice. "You're drunk and you should be in bed."
Fitzgerald hung around the place for quite an hour afterwards, hut Fifi
did not come to the window again.
Early the next morning, after a sleepless night, he found himself in
the house of Josef Babette. The man himself was away at the war, his
wife and daughter were running the place during his absence. They had
only one servant, a relative of Madame Babette, an oldish man, lean and
twisted up, with his mouth almost hidden between nose and chin. But he
was a good worker; few could surpass him at his labour on the wet level
fields. Madame Babette was very industrious, she got out of bed every
morning at five and nine at night saw her finishing up the day's
labour. So from week to week, her toil went on all the year round. Only
on Sunday did she seek a moment's relaxation, then she went to church,
told her beads and prayed for her good man who was away in the trenches
fighting the battles of France.
Fitzgerald was sitting near the stove, writing up his diary, a habit he
contracted at the beginning of the war and which he was still
religiously pursuing. Mother Babette was washing her dishes. She was a
thin, shrivelled woman of forty years of age, bent a little through
hard work but still untiring as an ant.
An adventurous hen was picking up the crumbs under the chairs. Two
chickens, less daring than their older feathered friend, came in,
stalked gingerly up to their mate, seized each a crumb in their beaks
and ran off as fast as their red legs could carry them.
Mother Babette finished her work, wiped the table, dusted the stove,
put the plates on the dresser and sat down. Fitzgerald continued
writing, but looked up now and again and took in with his eye the walls
blackened with smoke, the rafters festooned with spider webs, the
strings of onions hanging from the beams, the tall wooden clock beside
the dresser and the dog which lay under the table, wagging its tail and
shaking its ears as if trying to get rid of flies....
Then Fitzgerald's eyes were attracted by something else. Outside the
door Fifi was standing, throwing crumbs to the hens which clustered
round her feet. She was a well-built girl of eighteen with velvety
black eyes and a fascinating face. She wore a grey blouse and a striped
petticoat which reached a little lower than her knees, strong sabots
and a kerchief which was tied carelessly around her head. A prudent and
hard-working girl, she had already fed the pigs, foddered and milked
the cows, in addition to the hundred and one little things which must
be done every morning in a farmyard. She was in a good humour when she
entered the house, her white teeth and bright eyes were made for
laughter, and the girl's face generally wore a provokingly coquettish
expression. But behind it all lay hidden a reserve of restraint and
dignity which showed itself when the soldiers, speaking as soldiers
often speak, went too far with an indelicate jest. Fifi would look
steadily, with wide open eyes, at the speaker for a moment, then the
eyelids would slowly descend and the girl would rise to her feet and
proceed with her work.
This morning, she went up to Fitzgerald where he sat beside the stove,
writing.
"To your sweetheart?" she asked.
The Irishman flushed crimson and closed the diary.
"No, I have no sweetheart."
"You haven't slept; you look tired," said Fifi.
"I couldn't sleep. How could I, after last night?"
What a fool he had been, he thought. Raving of love and marriage at the
café, then proposing marriage to Fifi. If Snogger and Bubb and Bowdy
knew all that had happened last night, what would they say? They would
never cease twitting him. And Fifi. What was she thinking of now? Of
the affair at the window, probably. He looked up at her. Her eyelids
dropped, but behind this shyness there was something impetuous and
passionate in the whole of her personality. And he had kissed her last
night. He had pressed those lips in one great kiss. But now she seemed
very far removed from him. And the souvenirs. The request of the night
before seemed so unworthy of the girl.
"You couldn't sleep last night," said Fifi. "Why not?"
"I was thinking of you, of all that took place."
"But you were drunk?"
"I was not. I remember all that happened. I have gathered up a lot of
souvenirs for you."
"I don't want any," said the girl. "I was only joking."
"But you must."
"No, no. Have some coffee. Who are you writing to?" she asked.
"Nobody," said Fitzgerald. "It's part of a diary."
"Is that true?"
"Yes, quite true."
"Not writing to a woman in England?" said Fifi. "There was a soldier
here some time ago. He used to run after me. And I discovered that he
had a wife in England."
"I have neither wife nor sweetheart," said Fitzgerald. "But if you,
Fifi.... I am serious, you know...."
At that moment a French soldier came to the door, a man of about
forty-two. Over his shoulder he carried a kit-bag. Fifi and her mother
ran up to the man and embraced him. Josef Babette was back home on
leave, after seven months of war. He was a strong-muscled, well-built
man of medium size, a good soldier and diligent worker. He was a
well-to-do farmer, a respectable man, who was trusted by his neighbours
and bounden to none. He placed his kit away carefully in a corner, bade
good morning to Fitzgerald, and sat down. Fifi brewed a fresh pot of
coffee; Babette spoke about the war. He had just come from Souchez, and
it was a bad locality. He had never known a spot as bad. No peace day
or night. And as far as he could see the war would never come to an
end.
He drank his coffee, got to his feet, and went outside. Fifi, whose
eyes were wet with tears of gladness, lifted the kitbag from the ground
and took it into the bedroom.
"Where has your father gone?" Fitzgerald asked her when she returned.
"Oh, he has gone out to work," she replied.
"Things are behindhand on the farm. We have so little help."
Fitzgerald went out into the farmyard. Josef Babette was harnessing a
cart-horse, his coat off and his shirt-sleeves thrust up over his
elbows. Sergeant Snogger was washing at the pump.
"Ow're yer feelin' after last night?" he asked.
"Not so bad, sergeant," Fitzgerald replied.
"Been in seein' Fifi?" asked the sergeant.
"I have," said Fitzgerald. "She's a splendid girl. I love her, and if
she'll have me after the war, I'll marry her. God! there's something
grand in her; too good for me. But I don't know what to make of her.
She won't trust me, thinks I'm married, or something like that. And I
love her, but she refuses to understand me. We are so far apart,
somehow."
Snogger looked through his soapsuds at Fitzgerald, astonished at the
Irishman's burst of confidence.
"There is nothing artificial about the girl," Fitzgerald continued.
"She is grand, so simple and original. She says what she thinks and is
far too childish to hide her thoughts. And I don't think she has much
of an opinion of us."
"I don't think any of these 'ere French wenches care much for an
English Tommy," said Snogger. "They'll go a little way wiv 'em and then
they turn the deaf ear. I never was able to fool about wiv 'em. They're
more freer than English birds at first, but it's ''ands off' if you
want too much. They're all right if it's only cawfee and kisses, but
ye'll never get any further."
Snoggers winked knowingly and laughed. Fitzgerald made his way into the
barn.