A FACE
A commanding and almost gracefully shaped brow, a look that was at once childish and profound, a dimpled chin, a rather flaunting moustache, a bitter expression about the laughing lips: that French face I shall never forget, though I saw it only for a second in the flickering light of a match.
It was an autumn night in 1916. The train which runs from Châlons to Sainte-Menehould was making its return journey, with all lights out. The Champagne front, on our left, was then calm, sunk in volcanic sleep: a sleep of nightmares, sudden alarms, and sharp flashes. We pierced the darkness, slowly crossing the wretched country, which seemed in our mind’s eye to be even more wretched and distorted by the hideous machinery of war. The little train, with cries of weariness, hobbled along with a rather hesitating gait, like a blind man traversing an accustomed road.
I was going back, my furlough being over. Feeling rather ill, I lay on the seat.Opposite me, three officers were chatting. Their voices were those of young men, but in military experience they were veterans. They were rejoining their regiment.
“This sector,” said one of them, “is fairly quiet at present.”
“Certainly, there will be nothing doing until the spring,” replied the other.
Silence followed, broken by the restless clatter of the wheels running on the rails. Presently we heard a young, laughing, satirical voice saying, almost in a whisper:
“Oh! we shall be compelled to do some mad thing before spring.”
Then, without any connecting remark, the same man added:
“It will be my twelfth attack. But I have always been lucky. I have only been wounded once yet.”
These two phrases were still echoing in my ears when the man who had uttered them lighted a match and began smoking. The light gave a furtive glimpse of a handsome face. The man belonged to an honoured corps. The insignia of the highest awardsthat can be given to young officers gleamed on his yellow tunic. A quiet and discreet courage emanated from his personality.
Darkness once more enfolded us. But would there ever be a night black enough to extinguish the image which then flashed before me? Would there ever be a silence so complete as to stifle the echo of the two little phrases murmured amid the rattle of the train?
Since that time I have often thought of the incident whenever, as on that night, I have turned, with love and anguish, towards the past and towards the future of these men of France—my brothers who, in such great numbers, have given themselves up to die and are not ashamed to utter the thoughts that lie nearest the heart; whose nobility of soul, and unyielding intelligence and pathetic simplicity, the world appreciates too little.
How could I not think of it at a time which saw the long martyrdom of a great people, who, across a night without bourne, search solely for the paths along which they may at last find freedom and peace?