should have done, it would have been better. But it happened at that
time that there was a surgeon connected with the hospital who was bent
on making a reputation for himself, and this consisted in trying to
prolong the lives of wounded men who ought normally and naturally to
have died. So this surgeon worked hard to save Grammont, and certainly
succeeded in prolonging his life, and in prolonging his suffering, over
a very considerable portion of time. He worked hard over him, and he
used on him everything he could think of, everything that money could
buy. Every time he had a new idea as to treatment, no matter how costly
it might be, he mentioned it to the _Directrice_, who sent to Paris and
got it. All the while Grammont remained in bed, in very great agony, the
surgeon making copious notes on the case, noting that under such and
such circumstances, under conditions such as the following, such and
such remedies and treatment proved futile and valueless. Grammont had a
hole in his abdomen, when he entered, about an inch long. After about a
month, this hole was scientifically increased to a foot in length,
rubber drains stuck out in all directions, and went inwards as well,
pretty deep, and his pain was enhanced a hundredfold, while his chances
of recovery were not bright. But Grammont had a good constitution, and
the surgeon worked hard over him, for if he got well, it would be a
wonderful case, and the surgeon's reputation would benefit. Grammont
bore it all very patiently, and did not ask to be allowed to die, as
many of them did, for since he was of the _Bataillon d'Afrique_, such a
request would be equivalent to asking for a remission of sentence--a
sentence which the courts averred he justly deserved and merited. They
took no account of the fact that his ethics were those of a wandering
juggler, turning somersaults on a carpet at the public _fêtes_ of Paris,
and had been polished off by contact with the men and women he had
encountered in his capacity of _garçon d'hôtel_, in a fifth-rate hotel
near Montmartre. On the contrary, they rather expected of him the
decencies and moralities that come from careful nurture, and these not
being forthcoming, they had sent him to the _Bataillon d'Afrique_, where
his eccentricities would be of no danger to the public.
So Grammont continued to suffer, over a period of several long months,
and he was sufficiently cynical, owing to his short experience of life,
to realize that the surgeon, who worked over him so constantly and
solicitously, was not solely and entirely disinterested in his efforts
to make him well. Grammont had no life to return to, that was the
trouble. Everyone knew it. The surgeon knew it, and the orderlies knew
it, and his comrades in the adjoining beds knew it--he had absolutely no
future before him, and there was not much sense in trying to make him
well enough to return to Paris, a hopeless cripple. He lay in hospital
for several months, suffering greatly, but greatly patient. During that
time, he received no letters, for there was no one to write to him. He
was an _apache_, he belonged to a criminal regiment, and he had no
family anyhow, and his few friends, tattooed all over the body like
himself, were also members of the same regiment, and as such, unable to
do much for him in civil life after the war. Such it is to be a
_joyeux_, to belong to a regiment of criminals, and to have no family to
speak of.
Grammont knew that it would be better for him to die, but he did not
like to protest against this painful prolonging of his life. He was
pretty well sick of life, but he had to submit to the kind treatment
meted out to him, to twist his mouth into a wry smile when the
_Directrice_ asked him each day if he was not better, and to accept
without wincing all the newest devices that the surgeon discovered for
him. There was some sense in saving other people's lives, but there was
no sense in saving his. But the surgeon, who was working for a
reputation, worked hand in hand with the _Directrice_ who wanted her
hospital to make a reputation for saving the lives of the _grands
blessés_. Grammont was the victim of circumstances, as usual, but it was
all in his understanding of life, this being caught up in the ambitions
of others, so he had to submit.
After about three months of torture, during which time he grew weaker
and smelled worse every day, it finally dawned on the nurse that
perhaps this life-saving business was not wholly desirable. If he got
"well," in the mildest acceptation of the term, he would be pretty well
disabled, and useless and good for nothing. And if he was never going to
get well, for which the prospects seemed bright enough, why force him
along through more weeks of suffering, just to try out new remedies?
Society did not want him, and he had no place in it. Besides, he had
done his share, in the trenches, in protecting its best traditions.
Then they all began to notice, suddenly, that in bed Grammont was
displaying rather nice qualities, such as you would not expect from a
_joyeux_, a social outcast. He appeared to be extremely patient, and
while his face twisted up into knots of pain, most of the time, he did
not cry out and disturb the ward as he might have done. This was nice
and considerate, and other good traits were discovered too. He was not a
nuisance, he was not exacting, he did not demand unreasonable things,
or refuse to submit to unreasonable things, when these were demanded of
him. In fact, he seemed to accept his pain as God-given, and with a
fatalism which in some ways was rather admirable. He could not help
smelling like that, for he was full of rubber drains and of gauze
drains, and if the doctor was too busy to dress his wounds that day, and
so put him off till the next, it was not his fault for smelling so
vilely. He did not raise any disturbance, nor make any complaint, on
certain days when he seemed to be neglected. Any extra discomfort that
he was obliged to bear, he bore stoically. Altogether, after some four
months of this, it was discovered that Grammont had rather a remarkable
character, a character which merited some sort of recognition. He seemed
to have rather heroic qualities of endurance, of bravery, of discipline.
Nor were they the heroic qualities that suddenly develop in a moment of
exaltation, but on the contrary, they were developed by months of
extreme agony, of extreme bodily pain. He could have been so
disagreeable, had he chosen. And as he cared so little to have his life
saved, his goodness could not have been due to that. It seemed that he
was merely very decent, very considerate of others, and wanted to give
as little trouble as he could, no matter what took place. Only he got
thinner and weaker, and more and more gentle, and at last after five
months of this, the _Directrice_ was touched by his conduct and
suggested that here was a case of heroism as well worthy of the _Croix
de Guerre_ as were the more spectacular movements on the battlefield. It
took a few weeks longer, of gentle suggestion on her part, to convey
this impression to the General, but at last the General entered into
correspondence with the officers of the regiment to which Grammont
belonged, and it then transpired that as a soldier Grammont had
displayed the same qualities of consideration for others and of
discipline, that he was now displaying in a hospital bed. Finally one
day, the news came that Grammont was to be decorated. Everyone else in
the ward, who deserved it, had been decorated long ago, naturally, for
they had not belonged to the _Bataillon d'Afrique_. Their services had
been recognized long ago. Now, however, after these many months of
suffering, Grammont was to receive the _Croix de Guerre_. He was nearly
dead by this time. When told the news, he smiled faintly. He did not
seem to care. It seemed to make very little impression upon him. Yet it
should have made an impression, for he was a convicted criminal, and it
was a condescension that he should be so honoured at all. He had somehow
won this honour, this token of forgiveness, by suffering so long, so
uncomplainingly. However, a long delay took place, although finally his
papers came, his citation, in which he was cited in the orders of the
regiment as having done a very brave deed, under fire. He smiled a
little at that. It had taken place so long ago, this time when he had
done the deed, received the wound that kept him suffering so long. It
seemed so little worth while to acknowledge it now, after all these
months, when he was just ready to leave.
Then more delay took place, and Grammont got weaker, and the orderlies
said among themselves that if the General was ever going to decorate
this man, that he had better hurry up. However, so long a time had
passed that it did not much matter. Grammont was pleased with his
citation. It seemed to make it all right for him, somehow. It seemed to
give him standing among his fellow patients. The hideous tattoo marks on
his arms and legs, chest and back, which proclaimed him an _apache_,
which showed him such every time his wound was dressed, were about to
be overlaid with a decoration for bravery upon the field of battle. But
still the General did not come. Grammont grew very weak and feeble and
his patience became exhausted. He held on as long as he could. So he
died finally, after a long pull, just twenty minutes before the General
arrived with his medals.
PARIS,
27 June, 1916.
AN INCIDENT
At the intersection of the rue du Bac and the Boulevard St. Germain
rises the statue of Claude Chappe, rising like a rock in the midst of
the stream of traffic, and like a rock splitting the stream and
diverting it into currents which flow east and west, north and south,
smoothly and without collision. In guiding the stream of traffic and
directing its orderly flow, the statue of Claude Chappe is greatly
assisted by the presence of an _agent de police_, with a picturesque
cape and a picturesque sword, and who controls the flow of vehicles with
as much precision as a London policeman, although there are those who
profess that a London policeman is the only one who understands the
business. Before the war, when the omnibuses ran, the _agent de police_
was always on duty; since the war, when the Paris omnibuses are all at
the Front, carrying meat to the soldiers, there are certain times during
the day when the whole responsibility for traffic regulation falls upon
the statue of Claude Chappe. It was at one of these times, when Claude
Chappe was standing head in air as usual, and failed to regard the
comings and goings of the street, that this incident occurred.
Down on the Quai, an officer of the French army stepped into a little
victoria, a shabby little _voiture de place_, which trotted him up the
rue du Bac and then essayed to take him along the Boulevard St. Germain
to the _Ministère de la Guerre_. Coming along the boulevard in the
opposite direction, was a little lad of fifteen, bending low over the
handle bars of a tricycle delivery wagon, the box of which contained
enough kilos to have taxed a strong man or an old horse. Men are scarce
in Paris, however, and the little delivery boy, who could not possibly
have been available for the army for another three years, was doing a
man's work, or a horse's work, as you please. The French are a thrifty
race, and the possibilities being that the war will all be over before
that time, it mattered little whether this particular boy developed a
hernia, or tuberculosis, or any other malady which might unfit him for
future military service. At present he was earning money for his
_patron_, which was all that really mattered. So the little boy on the
tricycle, head down, ran squarely into the horse of the shabby victoria,
conveying the French officer, and the _agent de police_ was absent, and
the statue of Claude Chappe stood, as usual, head in air.
Quite a _mêlée_ ensued. The old horse, which should long ago have been
in a butcher's shop, avoided the tricycle, with true French thrift, but
stepped squarely upon the face of the little boy sprawling under its
hoofs. Another hoof planted itself on the fingers of the lad's right
hand. War itself could not have been more disastrous. The youth rose to
his feet, screaming. The cabby cursed. A crowd collected, and the
officer in the little carriage leaned back and twirled the ends of his
neat moustache. The _agent de police_, who should have been on duty at
the statue, arrived hastily from a nearby café. He always took two hours
off for lunch, in good Parisian fashion, and he was obliged on this
occasion to cut his lunch hour short by fifteen minutes. Everyone was
frightfully annoyed, but no one was more annoyed than the officer in the
cab, on his way to the Minister of War.
He was so annoyed, so bored, that he sat imperturbable, one arm lying
negligently along the back of the seat, the fingers of the other hand
caressing the Cross of the Legion of Honour, upon his breast. His eyes
rolled upwards, as if seeking the aeroplane which was not, at that
moment, flying over Paris. The cabby got down from his seat, and with
much vociferation called upon the officer to witness that it was not his
fault. The crowd, who had not witnessed the accident, crowded round the
policeman, giving testimony to what they had not seen. The sobbing boy
was led into a chemist's. Still the people did not disperse. They
pressed round the cab, and began shouting to the disinterested officer.
The officer who cared not where the old horse had stepped. The officer
who continued to loll back against the shabby cushions, to look upward
at the sky, to remain indifferent to the taximeter, which skipped
briskly from eighty-five centimes to ninety-five centimes, and continued
ticking on. Women crowded round the cab, regarding its occupant. Was
this one who commanded their sons at the Front, who had therefore seen
so much, been through so much, that the sight of a little boy stamped
on meant nothing to him? Had he seen so much suffering _en gros_ that it
meant nothing to him _en detail_? Or was this his attitude to all
suffering? Was this the Nation's attitude to the suffering of their
sons? Or was this officer one who had never been to the Front, an
_embusqué_, one of the protected ones, who occupied soft snaps in the
rear, safe places from which to draw their pay? The crowd increased
every minute. They speculated volubly. They surrounded the cab, voicing
their speculations. They finally became so unbearable that the officer's
boredom vanished. His annoyance became such, his impatience at the delay
became such that he slid down from the shabby cushions, and without
paying his fare, disappeared in the direction of the _Ministère de la
Guerre_.
* * * * *
_A Selection from the
Catalogue of_
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
Complete Catalogue sent
on application
* * * * *
The Night Cometh
By
Paul Bourget
Translated by Frederic Lees
_12°. $1.35_
Perhaps the most important work of imagination yet written under the
influence of the war. A French military hospital is the scene of the
story, and its chief characters are a famous Paris surgeon and a young
wounded officer, whose fervent Catholic piety is in sharp contrast with
the doctor's philosophic materialism. Death threatens both, and their
opposing theories with regard to it are displayed in their relation to
a drama of the most intense human passion.
G. P. Putnam's Sons
New York London
* * * * *
Halt!
Who's There?
By the Author of
"Aunt Sarah and the War"
_75 cents net. Postage additional_
A volume comparable to _Aunt Sarah and the War_ from the pen of the
author of that book. The scene is laid in a hospital, but the cases
recorded are those of men who, though wounded in body, are spiritually
whole. It is the ideals of England,--the essential England that, when
the hour strikes, is all courage--that manifest themselves throughout.
And be it said that it is an epitome not only of the spirit of England
but of the United Kingdom, with the emphasis on the united. There is a
fine strain of kindness and broad sympathy running through the book, and
much of poignancy in the personal dramas glimpsed through its pages.
G. P. Putnam's Sons
New York London
* * * * *
A TALL SHIP
ON OTHER NAVAL OCCASIONS
BY BARTIMEUS
_12°. PICTURE WRAPPER. $1.00_
Tales descriptive of life in the British Navy under stress of war-time
conditions--the life of the officers' mess, and the stoke-hole--the
grime as well as the glory. Vivid pictures of the ache of parting, of
the strain of long waiting for the enemy, of sinking ships and struggles
in the waves--and also of the bright side that not even war can
extinguish.
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK LONDON
* * * * *
News from
Somewhere
By
James Milne
Author of "The Romance of a Pro-Consul," etc.
_12°. $1.50 net. Frontispiece_
"Many things seen, heard, and thought during travels at home, on sea and
oversea, in the war-time which we call 'Armageddon.' It is a chronicle
of war impressions gathered during travel, near and far, on its edges
red and jagged."
"This indeed is a book of the war but it is not like the others. There
is in it nothing that is harsh, cruel, ugly, such as there must be in
nearly every other volume that is wrought about Armageddon. There is
sadness in it but it is a sweet sadness. There is an immensity of
pathos. There is much that is beautiful. And all of it is true."--_The
Daily Telegraph._
"Great in spirit ... a book that will surely outlive the war."--_The
Graphic._
G. P. Putnam's Sons
New York London
End of Project Gutenberg's The Backwash of War, by Ellen N. La Motte