He was a nonentity, with the soul of a hare and the shameless endurance
of a beast of burden. When the malicious irony of fate cast his lot in
among our black ranks, we laughed like maniacs at the thought that such
absurd inept mistakes could actually be made. As for him, well—he
cried. And never have I met with a man of so many tears, flowing so
freely—from eyes and nose and mouth. He was like a sponge saturated
with water, and then squeezed. In our ranks I have seen, indeed, men
who wept, but then their tears were fire, from which even fierce wild
beasts would run away. These manly tears aged the faces, but made the
eyes young again. Like lava released from the red-hot bowels of the
earth, they burnt an indelible track, and buried under themselves whole
cities of worthless devices and shallow cares. But when this fellow
began to weep, only his nose grew red, and his handkerchief became wet.
Probably he used to hang out his handkerchiefs on a line to dry; how
otherwise could he have supplied himself with so many?
During the whole time of exile he was continually applying to the
authorities, real and imaginary, bowing, and weeping, and swearing that
he was innocent, entreating them to have pity upon his youth, and
promising all his life never to open his mouth except in petition and
gratitude. But they laughed at him, even as did we, and called him “the
wretched little pig,” and would call out to him:
“Piggy, come here!”
And he would obediently run to their cell, expecting each time to hear
news of his restoration to his native land. But they were only joking.
They knew, as well as we did, that he was innocent. But they thought by
his torments to intimidate other little pigs, as though they were not
cowardly enough already. He would also come to us, impelled by an
animal dread of solitude. But our faces were stern, and locked against
him, and in vain he sought for the key. At an utter loss what to do, he
would call us his dear comrades and friends. But we would shake our
heads and say:
“Look out! Some one will hear you!”
And he was not ashamed to glance round at the door—the little pig!
Well! Could we possibly contain ourselves? No, we laughed with mouths
long accustomed to laughter. Then he, emboldened and comforted, would
sit down nearer to us, and converse, and weep about his dear books,
which he had left upon the table, and about his mamma and little
brothers, of whom he did not know whether they were alive or dead of
fear and grief.
Towards the end we refused to associate with him any longer. When the
hunger-strike began he was seized with terror—the most inexpressibly
comical terror. He was evidently very fond of his stomach, poor little
pig, and he was terribly afraid of his dear comrades, and also of the
authorities. He wandered about among us in a state of perturbation,
continually passing his handkerchief over his forehead, upon which
something had exuded—was it tears or perspiration? Then he asked me in
an irresolute manner:
“Shall you starve long?”
“For a long time,” I sternly replied.
“But will you not eat anything on the sly?”
“Our mammas will send us pies,” I acquiesced in all seriousness. He
looked at me in doubt, nodded his head and went away with a sigh. The
next day, green as a paroquet with fear, he answered:
“Dear comrades! I also will starve with you.”
We replied with one voice: “Starve by yourself!”
And he did starve! We did not believe it, just as you will not believe
it: we thought that he ate something on the sly, and so too thought our
guards. And when towards the end of the strike he fell ill of
famine-typhus, we only shrugged our shoulders and said:
“Poor little Pig!”
But one of us—he who never laughed—said grimly: “He is our comrade, let
us go to him.”
He was delirious, and his incoherent ravings were as piteous as the
whole of his life. He talked of his dear books, of his mamma and
brothers; he asked for tarts, cold as ice, tasty tarts; and he swore
that he was innocent, and begged for pardon. He called on his native
country—his dear France, and damn the weakness of the human heart! he
rent our souls with that cry of “Dear France.”
We were all in the room when he lay a-dying. He recovered his
consciousness before death, and silent he lay, so small, so weak; and
silent stood we his comrades’. We all to a man heard him say: “When I
am dead sing over me the Marseillaise.”
“What dost thou say?” we exclaimed, with a shock of mingled joy and
rising anger.
He repeated: “When I am dead sing over me the Marseillaise.”
And it happened for the first time that his eyes were dry, but we wept,
wept one and all: and our tears burned like fire from which fierce
wild-beasts do flee.
He died, and we sang over him the Marseillaise. With lusty young voices
we sang that great song of freedom; and threateningly the ocean
re-echoed it to us, and the crests of its waves bore to his dear France
pale terror, and blood-red hope.
And he became ever our watchword, that nonentity with the body of a
hare, and of a beast of burden—but with the great soul of a man! On
your knees, comrades and friends!
We sang! At us the rifles were aimed, while their locks clicked
ominously, and the sharp points of the bayonets were menacingly turned
towards our hearts. But ever louder and more joyfully resounded the
threatening song, while the black coffin swayed in the tender hands of
stalwarts.
We sang the Marseillaise!